


The Thrall

by LovelyVillain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Egyptology, F/F, F/M, Graphic Violence, M/M, Monsters, New York City, Penny Dreadful - Freeform, Supernatural Elements, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2019-10-19 07:30:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 214,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17597009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyVillain/pseuds/LovelyVillain
Summary: New York City, 1925.When the sun sets, darkness reigns over the city that never sleeps...And an ancient evil awakens.Penny Dreadful inspired AU





	1. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my beauties! I’m so excited you’re here :D  
>  Let me give you the lay of the land...
> 
> **– Synopsis –**  
> 
> 
> If Harry Potter, Penny Dreadful, True Blood, The Mummy, and Discovery of Witches had an orgy that somehow produced one very confused offspring, _this_ would be their story.
> 
> **– Pairings –**  
> 
> 
> Tomione and a bunch of others, including, but not limited to, slash and femslash.
> 
> **– Trigger Warnings –**  
> 
> 
> Please avoid consumption if you are allergic to any of the following:  
>  _horror, violence, smut, violent smut, smutty violence_ (not to be confused with _non-con, dub-con_ , or _comic-con_ , all of which are also included. Wait.) _sketchy Google translations, heavy reliance on Google maps, fast and loose historical facts, characters dropping their weapons and running upstairs when they should go out the gd front door_ (pls be nice to the characters they work so hard but do not pet them they will bite), _gratuitous descriptions of washboard abs, and/or cliché literary quotes._
> 
> But fear not! No animals were harmed in the making of this fic. I only butcher people. Lots and lots of people. And then I write Harry Potter fanfiction.
> 
> Confused? Me, too! Now let's have some fun.

_“Once again… welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and_ _leave something of the happiness you bring.”_  
~ Bram Stoker, Dracula  
.   .   .

_New York City, 1925_

Harry gripped the handrail with all his might as his life flashed before his eyes.

The cab made another tight turn, narrowly missing a head-on collision with an oncoming vehicle in the neighboring lane.

The driver turned the wheel once more, weaving past a pedestrian stepping off the curb.

“Get out of the street, you goddamn hobo!”

He pressed the horn manically for several seconds before making another tight turn and glancing into the rearview mirror.

“Sorry, kid. You gotta be direct with the vermin out here. They’d lie in the middle of the road if they could fit between the bumpers.”

Harry released the overhead bar and glanced to his other hand.

Only to cringe.

The letter was clenched in his fist, the paper tightly balled. He loosened his hold and carefully smoothed the sheet over his thigh, mourning the smudged ink from the sweat of his palm.

He shook his head, chest tight, despite the fact he’d read the missive over a hundred times and already memorized every word.

A sea of red tail lights illuminated the opposite end of the street, traffic at a standstill. The driver smacked the dashboard, slamming on the breaks with a colorful curse.

The tires released a deafening screech, the acrid odor of burnt rubber filling the backseat and turning Harry's pounding headache into a skull-splitting migraine.

He folded the letter along its worn seams and tucked it into his back pocket, glancing up to find the driver once again watching him in the mirror.

“This your first visit?”

Harry began to roll the window down, feeling more claustrophobic than ever. “I grew up in Sunset Park.”

The driver laughed, tapping his thumbs on the top of the steering wheel. “No shit? A Brooklyn boy.” He arched a brow, eyes skimming lower. “You get that tan on vacation?”

“Not exactly.”

The man nodded, glancing through the windshield. “Strong silent type. I get it. You’re paying for the ride, not the small talk.”

"I don't mean to be rude. I just got off a three-day train ride and can barely keep my eyes open, little less follow a conversation."

“Three days? Christ. You come from California or something?”

Harry dragged a hand over his face, wiping away sweat courtesy of the oppressive summer heat. “Los Angeles.”

“ _Los Angeles_.” The driver enunciated each syllable as though speaking a foreign language for the first time. “You an actor?”

Harry couldn’t contain his bark of laughter. “Not in the slightest.” His expression rapidly sobered, head falling back against the top of the seat. “I was a boxer.”

“Wow. Impressive.” The driver’s gaze flickered back to the mirror. “That how you get the scar?”

Harry set his jaw, staring at the domed ceiling.

“No.”

It came out more guttural than intended. The driver straightened, gripping the wheel tighter and falling blissfully silent.

The light finally turned green ahead, brake lights slowly dissipating as the traffic crawled forward. The driver switched the blinker on but before he could turn the wheel a steady gallop sounded beside them.

“Look at this moron!”

Harry closed his eyes as the man gestured wildly.

“Dumbest shit I’ve ever seen! People still using an animal over an automobile. Astounds me.”

He shook his head, finally pulling into the neighboring lane and trailing the horse and buggy.

“They got many checker cabs in Los Angeles? I’m getting tired of this shit. Could use some palm trees and warm ocean breezes in my life.”

Harry’s eyes snapped open. He shifted forward, ready to crawl through the window. “You can drop me off on the corner.”

The driver blinked. “We’re still fifteen blocks–”

“I’ll walk. I need to stretch my legs.”

The man shrugged, turning on the blinker once more. “It’s your knees.”

He pulled along the curb, changing gears and then checking the ledger on the center console. “A dollar sixty-six.”

Harry fished two bills from his duffel, handing them over the seat. “Keep the change.”

“Hey, thanks, kid.”

He scrambled out of the backseat so quickly he nearly forgot to take his bag, adjusting the strap over his shoulder as he peered up at the tightly packed buildings stretching endlessly in either direction.

The cab started to pull away.

“And welcome to Queens!”

The driver saluted him through the window, tossing his head back with a laugh and nearly colliding with a yellow cab. Both drivers honked, shouting through the windows at each other.

Harry shook his head and turned, making his way up the sidewalk, the letter burning a hole through his pocket with every step.

.   .   .

He inhaled the warm summer air, filling his lungs with the sweet scent of flowering bushes and expelling the last remnants of smoke exhaust.

The street was quiet, the narrow sidewalk barren of the youthful chalk art he was used to seeing. An elderly man watered his lawn up ahead, carefully watching Harry’s slow progression. Harry tipped his head in greeting but the man gave no acknowledgment.

Something in the air felt charged, alive, dangerous. He glanced over his shoulder on instinct, a swelling presence at his back, but saw only a stretch of tightly clustered homes. The same street he’d walked countless times before, but somehow not.

Somehow different.

Tainted.

His hand clenched at his side as he stepped off the sidewalk and onto the street, glancing quickly in either direction before making a quick sprint to the other side, bag bouncing heavily off his side.

He stopped before the white picket fence, swallowing nervously as he gazed ahead at the lopsided structure beyond. His heart skipped a beat as he pushed the gate open, stepping onto the pale stone path leading to the porch.

The curtains were drawn in every window, the riotous noise he’d grown so accustomed to over the years entirely absent. All he could hear was his own thundering heartbeat and the distant spray of the hose.

He stopped before the door and raised a hand, fist hovering over the wood, limbs solidifying to stone.

He closed his eyes, inhaling once more and bringing the side of his palm down in three hard strikes before he could think better of it.

There was a muffled thud from inside, followed by faint shuffling and finally footsteps.

His pulse spiked higher, anticipation building, feet and shoulders braced as he unconsciously slipped into a defensive stance.

The door opened.

A familiar face appeared, outlined by the darkness of the hallway beyond.

“Harry.”

His hand curled tighter, even as his shoulders relaxed.

“Ron.”

A tense beat.

And then his friend surged forward, embracing him tightly.

Harry went stiff in his hold, silently cursing himself before forcing his posture to ease, slowly embracing the man in turn.

After several lingering seconds, Ron started to pull back.

“Fuck. It’s good to–” His eyes widened. “Your face.”

Harry smirked, dropping his arms and glancing away. “Good to see you, too.”

Ron stepped back, eyes fastened to the line of raised flesh stretching from Harry's dark hairline to the top of his cheekbone, bisecting his brow at the center.

“What happened?”

Harry idly traced the scar. “What, this old thing?”

“Seriously, Harry. Were you in a car accident or something? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It was nothing that serious, Ron. It looks far worse than it is. I forget it’s there until people see fit to remind me.”

His friend’s jaw worked silently for several moments, as though milling over how far to push the matter. Harry felt his spine ease as he saw the familiar gleam in the man's blue eyes, his visage morphing from acute concern to mischief in the space of a beat.

“Makes you look dangerous.” The corner of his lips quirked. “Women like dangerous. You’re guaranteed to get laid whenever you want.”

Harry adjusted the strap on his shoulder. “That was my first thought as well.”

Ron’s gaze darted to the duffle and back again. “I wasn’t expecting you this early.”

“I came straight from the station.”

“You could have gotten settled first.”

Harry shook his head. “This is more important.”

Ron held his gaze for another moment before wrapping a hand around the edge of the door and stepping back.

“Come on in. I’ll put on a pot. You look like shit.”

Harry’s face split across the center, grin stretching from end to end. “I was afraid you wouldn’t recognize me otherwise.”

Ron tipped his head back, rolling laughter trailing him down the hallway as he led the way to the heart of the Burrow.

Harry followed slowly, distracted by the family portraits lining either wall. Freckled faces smiled back at him, eternally trapped in varying stages of childhood and awkward adolescence.

“Molly home?”

Ron turned the corner. “No. She’s with her Church group. They do a prayer circle every afternoon and then hand out missing flyers.”

Harry rounded the corner behind him, stepping onto the cracked linoleum and emerging into the small, brightly lit kitchen.

“How is she doing with all this?”

Ron reached for two mugs sitting on the open shelf above the stove. “She’s holding it together.”

“After Bill, I thought–”

Ron slammed the ceramic on the countertop. “This is _nothing_ like Bill.” He turned his head, pinning Harry with a defiant stare. “Nothing.”

Harry wet his lips. “Of course not, I just meant–”

“Gin’s still alive.” Ron faced forward, reaching for the metal canister beside the ice box. “She isn’t dead, Harry. That’s the entire fucking reason I asked you here.”

He unscrewed the lid and reached into the opening, grabbing the wooden scoop.

“We just need to find her.”

Harry watched him shovel loose grounds onto the drip paper, the slight tremor in his hand nearly imperceptible.

He glanced away, making his way to the small table pushed against the opposite wall.

“How long has she been missing?”

“Two weeks today.”

Harry blinked, dropping his bag to the floor. “Why didn’t you contact me sooner?”

Ron screwed the lid back into place with force. “I wrote you the day after we found her room empty. I knew something was wrong even then.” He glanced over his shoulder. “When I didn’t get a response I rang the motel. They said you checked out a month prior without leaving a forwarding address.”

Harry collapsed into the chair, the air deflating from his lungs in a powerful rush.

“I’m sorry, I–”

“That doesn’t matter.” Ron slid the canister back. “Remus helped me track you down. And now you’re here.”

He made his way to the sink, shoulders stiff and eyes hard. Harry’s intestines twisted like a swarm of eels. He raised his hand and gripped the back of his shoulder, pressing his fingertips against the long-healed wound.

“What do you think happened?”

Ron turned the faucet on, holding the pot beneath the emerging stream. “She was taken.”

Harry’s hand dropped. “Taken? You mean kidnapped?”

“What else do you call it when a girl is stolen out of her room at night?”

He raised a dark brow. “Are you sure she didn’t sneak out?”

Ron’s spine turned rigid.

“Yes.”

“I’m not saying she wasn’t taken off the street somewhere else, but maybe she left the Burrow voluntarily–”

“She hasn’t had reason to sneak out since you skipped town.”

Harry leaned back, winded by the force of the blow.

“Ron–”

“This isn’t about you and her. This is about Gin.” He turned off the sink. “About finding out what happened.”

Harry leaned forward, gripping the worn edge of the table. “I want to help. But surely the police can do more than either of us.”

Ron shook his head, jamming the pot onto the base of the percolator. “The police won’t do shit. I told you in my letter. Her missing person’s file is at the bottom of a two-foot stack.”

“Because she’s not a minor?”

“That, and she’s one of a dozen missing people this month.”

Harry pressed back into the chair. “Sounds pretty low for New York.”

“This is different.”

His heartbeat swelled as Ron turned to face him, eyes raging like the turbulent sea.

“The people disappearing aren’t the kind to go missing. Young men and women from respectable families, people with influence and power.” Acid dripped from his tongue, corroding the already peeling plastic floor. “And of course, they get top priority with the detectives.”

Harry watched him flick the coffee maker on, trying to make sense of the madness.

“Are they being ransomed?”

“Nothing that’s been publicized.” Ron turned once more, leaning against the sink and folding his arms across his chest. “No one knows what the hell is going on. According to Percy, the Governor is trying to issue a citywide curfew.”

Harry released a humorless laugh. “That’ll never pass.”

“No shit.” Ron carded a hand through his hair, shoulders tight. “The bottom line is, Ginny’s from a poor family in Queens. She’s low on the list. The police haven’t even been to the house to search her bedroom. They told us she probably skipped town with some guy, despite the fact she took nothing with her, not even her purse.”

Harry could hear his friend’s teeth grinding from across the room.

“We’ve been doing all the work ourselves. Charlie got home last week and is crashing with Fred and George. They took as much time off work as they could, but now they can only go out after their shift ends.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. The water began dripping into the pot like the ticking of a clock.

“Which means if by some dark fate the curfew _does_ manage to pass, we’re royally fucked. There’ll be hardly any opportunity to search.”

Harry eyed him closely. “What about you? Are you still working?”

“I quit the factory after she disappeared. We all agreed it was for the best. Dad took on extra hours to make up the monthly ledger, and I’m able to search during the day.”

He released a deep sigh, tipping his head back and closing his eyes, lines creasing his forehead. “But it’s too much ground for me to cover alone. That’s why I wrote you.” His head snapped forward, eyes bright. “Will you help?”

Harry responded without hesitation or thought. “Of course I will, Ron. I’d do anything for your family, anything for Gin. But–”

He wet his lips, silently cursing himself for the slip.

Ron’s gaze narrowed. “Spit it out.”

Harry kept his tone measured. “But two weeks is a long time–”

“She _isn’t_ dead.”

He raised his palms. "I'm not saying she is." He held his friend's lethal glare without offense. "All I'm saying is… I just traveled clear across the country in three days." He lowered his hands, bracing his thighs. "She could be halfway around the world by now."

Ron stood away from the counter. “Then we’ll search the entire goddamn globe.” He raised his chin. “But we start here.”

An electrical current pulsed through the air, raising the fine hairs along their arms.

“We start with New York.”

Harry inhaled slowly, waiting until the charged moment dissipated before speaking.

“Alright. I’m with you.”

Ron walked the few steps to the table, leaning over and fishing a newspaper from beneath a butter dish.

“Another girl went missing last night.”

He slid the paper sideways. Harry leaned in, picking it up and skimming the bold headline, eyes darting to the grainy photo beneath.

“Central Park.”

Ron nodded, studying the image from beyond his shoulder. “They recovered her shoe, soaked in blood, but no sign of her or an attacker.”

He glanced at Harry. “There was no sign of a struggle in Gin’s room either.”

Harry set the paper down, choosing his words carefully.

“Ron, Manhattan is bustling with crime. The chances that the two disappearances are connected–”

“It’s all we have to go on. And it’s the first fresh lead we’ve had in over a week. The last disappearance was too high profile for us to get close to.”

Harry rubbed his brow. “Okay, what do you propose we do then?”

Ron backed away to the counter, watching the coffee pot steadily fill. “The crime scene will be guarded during the day. But it’ll be accessible at night.”

“The Park will also be closed.”

“Since when have you shied away from breaking and entering?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Just tell me where to meet.”

“Merchant’s Gate, 2 a.m. That’ll give us a few hours to search before it reopens.”

“I’ll be there.”

Ron scanned his face with uncharacteristic astuteness. “You should get some sleep until then. You really do look like shit.” He watched as Harry pushed to his feet. “You can crash here.”

Harry shook his head, reaching for his bag. “That’s alright, I need to see the house. I can’t put it off forever.” He met his friend’s eye, lifting the strap onto his shoulder. “I’ll take a raincheck on the coffee. Give Molly my best.”

He started for the doorway but faltered when a hand gripped his arm from behind.

His vision faded in and out, every muscle strung taut, ready to pounce, ready to fight.

He sucked in a sharp breath, fighting the urge with every ounce of strength and sanity left over from the arduous journey.

_It’s Ron._

He closed his eyes, fists trembling.

_Just Ron._

He swallowed heavily, forcing his head to the side, meeting Ron’s eye over his shoulder.

The man appeared blissfully unaware of the war raging inside his friend’s head.

But his expression still looked tense, the distress in his blue gaze pulling Harry free from the heavy fog and back to the present moment.

“You need to tell her you’re back.”

Harry’s body throbbed with the force of his heartbeat. “I will.”

“She’s been worried out of her mind–”

“I’ll pay her a visit next.”

Ron’s grip tightened. Harry set his jaw.

“I promise.”

The hand fell away. Ron stepped back.

“I’m glad you're here.”

Harry swallowed heavily, forcing his knees to bend, his feet to unstick.

“So am I.” He held his gaze, the air turning dense, hard to breathe. “I just wish it had been under different circumstances.”

Ron glanced away, eyes brimming with pain, unable to keep his emotions tamped any longer.

Harry started to leave once more, intent on affording his friend some privacy. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Harry.”

He stopped at the threshold, bracing the frame and looking back. A cloud passed before the sun, bathing the room in a pool of darkness.

Ron’s eyes gleamed from the shadows. “You still have Sirius’s gun?”

Harry gripped the wall tighter.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Ron turned for the sink, offering his back. “Bring it.”

.   .   .

Harry stared at the white street sign for several minutes, studying the letters of Waverly Place with quiet intensity, biding his time while he waited for his courage to surface.

Greenwich Village was far more bustling than Queens had been, and was much more crowded than the last time he set foot in the neighborhood. It seemed more immigrant families had moved in and set up shop over the last two years, a refreshing change considering the state of immigration reform following the war.

Hostilities remained high as debate ran rampant throughout the country, though the issue was less spoken about on the West Coast, where so many people flocked to each year it hardly seemed to matter where they originated from.

But Ellis Harbor once served as the Nation’s Golden Gate and was ground zero for political and social unrest. The ramifications of immigration reform could be felt all over the city and seen in every neighborhood Harry traversed by foot, heavily segregated by either Nationality or race.

So he kept his head down, long legs eating up the sidewalk as quickly as possible as he ventured past sprawling mansions and tightly packed ghettos separated by only a few city blocks.

But the moment he stepped into Greenwich his step felt lighter, an invisible weight lifted.

The neighborhood served as a cultural melting pot, filled with a wide variety of housing and storefronts ranging from neoclassical to Avante Garde and exotic.

And Waverly Place was no different, for at its center stood a single-family brownstone that was home to one of the most brilliant and eccentric scholars in the country.

And someone else...

Harry glanced away from the sign at long last, squaring his shoulders and stepping into the street.

Only to leap back onto the sidewalk as a horn blared to life at his side, a checkered cab whizzing past at blurring speeds.

He took a steadying breath, sweeping the fallen bangs off his forehead and trying once more.

The door opened across the street.

He leaped back onto the curb, ducking behind a tree, shaking his head at his own childish stupidity.

He peered through the branches, catching a flash of navy skirt through the leaves. Pedestrians continued to walk in either direction, undeterred by his voyeuristic exploits.

He inhaled slowly, hands opening and closing at his sides as he watched her lock the door. Her hair was tied up and tucked beneath a dove gray cap, face turned away.

She tucked her keys into her pocket and spun around at last.

Harry stood straight, heart thundering as her eyes came into view.

His jaw clenched as she made her way down the steps and onto the sidewalk, moving a leather case to her other hand and slipping seamlessly into foot traffic.

He stood stock still, watching her progress steadily to the end of the street, pausing at the intersection with the rest of the crowd and tucking a loose curl behind her ear.

The traffic stopped.

She crossed.

And then turned the corner.

Disappearing from sight.

He released a hissing breath and closed his eyes, forehead dropping to the rough bark.

“Idiot.”

He stood back a moment later, turning around and heading in the opposite direction she had ventured.

On his way to drive the third knife through his heart.

.   .   .

He once more kept his eyes averted as he entered the gated community, though this time for an entirely different reason.

Gramercy boasted an air of grandeur that Harry had always found unsettling, the exclusive district bedazzled with Italian marble, Greek Revival facades, and high-end, glittering storefronts.

He was quite aware he stood out from the shiny opulence like a sore thumb, still sporting his rumpled travel wear and the ever chaotic mess atop his head.

But he forced his shoulders back, avoiding passing stares as he turned the corner onto Grimmauld Place, silently counting down the numbers in his head as he passed each massive estate by.

Until at last he reached the end of the row.

He stood before the narrow three-story mansion and stared at the ground, unable to look upon it for several moments.

But the air around him buzzed, the wind spinning at his feet in a soft cyclone, blowing stray leaves and debris upward, forcing his chin to lift and his eyes to follow.

Yet all he could see was the black shingled roof and bent chimney stack.

He raised a hand, pulling away dead ivy twisting through the bars of the gate, obscuring most of the property from view.

“Excuse me.”

He jolted, turning in place, heart skipping as a black patrol car pulled along the corner, red light flashing.

The officer rolled his window down the rest of the way, eyes narrowed. “Can I help you?”

Harry blinked, looking either way down the sidewalk and spotting residents at both ends, whispering sharply to one another while staring blatantly at their exchange.

His fists clenched.

“No.”

The officer sighed, pulling the vehicle to a stop. “This is a private neighborhood, you can’t cut through.”

Harry fought the urge to drive his boot into the side of the shiny black paneling.

“I’m not passing through. I live here.”

The man raised a brow. “That so?”

Harry cursed Grimmauld Place and all its rich, dimwitted inhabitants as the officer switched the engine off, opening his door and stepping out with exaggerated slowness, as though waiting for Harry to bolt.

“Then we have a problem. Because I happen to know for a fact this is the old Black Estate, and the last of them died off nearly three years ago.”

Harry lifted his chin, tendons throbbing in his neck. “I’m well aware.”

“Let me guess, you’re a long lost heir of the family fortune?”

“Something like that.”

The man rolled his eyes, stepping onto the sidewalk. “And what’s your name?”

“Harry Potter.”

He smirked. “Your mother was a Black, I take it?”

Harry’s emerald gaze flashed at the mocking lilt.

“My godfather.”

“Look, kid. I’m in a generous mood. Move along now and I won’t have to take you in.”

Harry reared back. “Under what charge?”

“Being a pain in my ass.”

He shook his head, stepping forward with the force of his outrage. The Officer drew back, feet spreading in a battle stance Harry recognized well. He watched the man reach towards his holster and red flooded his vision.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

They both blinked. Harry went rigid, recognizing the voice without seeing its owner. The Officer turned his head, though his hand still lingered on the hilt of his weapon.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Slughorn.”

Footsteps sounded across the street at Harry’s back. The cop shook his head, raising a staying hand.

“Please, Sir, don’t–”

“You’ve met young Mr. Potter, I see.”

The officer’s eyes darted between them.

The footsteps stopped at Harry’s side, and then hands seized his arm in a vice, spinning him in place.

“Harry, look at you, so much taller than I remember!”

The newcomer gripped his other arm, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Harry fought the urge to pull away, nerves severely strained from the previous encounter.

“And wider, too! Were you wrestling sharks during your California adventure?”

The Officer shifted. “You know this man, Mr. Slughorn?”

Horace glanced sideways, laughing buoyantly. “Of course! This is Harry Potter. I've known him since he was a wee tyke.”

The Officer glanced between them once more, looking unconvinced. “He claims to live here.”

“Then he’s returned home! I dare say a celebration is in order.”

Harry couldn’t help but smirk, at last addressing the man holding him captive.

“It’s good to see you, Horace.”

Horace beamed from his short height, eyes fixed to Harry’s thin scar, and then the officer drew their attention, clearing his throat as he backed away to the curb.

“My apologies, Mr. Potter.” He tipped his head. “Can never be too careful. You understand.”

Harry arched a dark brow, pulling free of Horace’s grip and pinning the man with the full intensity of his gaze.

"Certainly." He smiled, teeth gleaming in the sunlight. "With all the missing person cases piling up at your office, you must be under _a lot_ of scrutiny.”

The man blinked, color heightening. He stepped forward again, inhaling sharply as though to speak–

Horace moved between them, hands resting atop his stomach.

"Thank you, Officer Collins, for endeavoring to keep our neighborhood safe as always."

They continued to watch each other above the elderly man’s head, eyes unblinking. But after several seconds the Officer relented, returning to his vehicle in silence and pulling away without further comment.

Harry watched the car round the corner and turned, the cluster of neighbors scattering in every direction from their watchful posts.

“Thanks, Horace.”

The man smiled, patting him on the back. “Collins is a well-meaning nuisance, I assure you. And to his credit, you do look as though you swam free of Alcatraz and walked the entire way here.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Feels like it, too.”

“Are you home for good?”

He swallowed heavily, peering at the house through the gaps in the overgrown foliage.

“I came to search for Ginny.”

Horace shifted at his side. “Oh, dear. Such devastating news. Such a beautiful girl.”

Harry glanced at him sharply, Ron’s stricken face taking root in his mind. “We don’t know she’s dead.”

His neighbor's grey brows furrowed. “Of course not. I merely meant her disappearance itself. And after everything that poor family has already suffered through.” He tilted his head, holding Harry’s gaze. “And you as well.”

Harry glanced away, focusing on the shuttered windows ahead. “The war took its toll on everyone.” He wet his lips, gripping a rod iron bar. “It was nice to see you, Horace, but I think I’ve delayed the inevitable long enough.”

The man edged closer. “Would you like some company? There may be bats inside.”

Harry laughed shortly. “Then they’re welcome to stay. They’ve lived here longer than I have.” He pulled open the gate door, cringing as it creaked loudly on its rusty hinges. “I appreciate the offer, but I’d prefer some time to myself.”

“Of course.” Horace clasped his shoulder. “It’s good you’re here, Harry.” His eyes shimmered. “It’s good to have you home.”

Harry smiled in turn, face brittle with the effort, and watched the man slowly meander back to his own estate directly across the street.

And then his expression fell like a dead weight, shoulders impossibly rigid as he turned around and took his first unobstructed look at the house.

It was darker than he remembered. Eerier. The lawn was dead, the trees in the yard grey and petrified.

The neighborhood youth always touted that the property was haunted by the dead and living alike. Gazing upon the gothic-revival structure now, Harry couldn’t agree more.

He started along the pebbled pathway, never taking his eyes off the front door. The dark lacquer made it gleam like onyx beneath the midday sun.

He made his way up the rotting steps to the porch, the slats bending beneath his weight, and fished the keys from the side pocket of his duffle, bracing himself for the onslaught, thankful for the mindless exhaustion rendering him all but numb.

He slid the key into the lock, the bolt clicking loudly and clipping away something inside him.

He turned the knob and pushed open the barrier.

A drafty cloud of stale air rushed out, blowing dust into his eyes and mouth. He stepped back, coughing into his hand and peering into the darkness beyond.

The windows remained boarded, thin slivers of daylight peeking through, illuminating the sheet covered furniture pushed against the walls.

He straightened, setting his jaw and stepping over the threshold, the air pressure changing the moment he set foot in the entryway.

He ignored the unsettled feeling, closing the door and tossing his bag to the frayed rug.

A floorboard creaked near the steps.

He glanced up sharply, and his eyes were immediately caught by a hawkish glare.

The massive portrait dominated the wall at the top the staircase, just as he remembered.

Walburga.

Narrowed gaze ever watchful, face set in an eternal scowl of judgment.

He tore his attention away and made his way to the parlor, heading straight for the liquor cabinet.

Probably empty, but worth a shot.

The room itself was as dark as the entry, faintly lit by the meager daylight bleeding through the wooden boards.

He opened the cabinet doors, disturbing a fresh cloud of dust and coughing into his forearm, eyes tearing.

And then he blinked.

A single crystal decanter remained.

His heart leaped.

_Thank you, God._

He grabbed it by the neck, holding it in a narrow strip of light to study the contents, relieved to see it was half full.

He sighed deeply, leaning against the peeling wallpaper and sliding to the ground with a heavy thud.

He pulled the stopper free with his teeth and spit it aside, taking a deep pull of the mystery liquor and cringing at the burn that erupted along his tongue, the trail of fire racing down his throat. But the pooling warmth in his stomach was a welcome comfort.

He tipped his head back, staring at the cracked and water-stained ceiling.

“I’m back, old man.”

He swallowed heavily, releasing a sharp sigh that broke apart a dust cloud hovering above.

“And I’ve really fucked it up this time.”

He took another heavy swig, this gulp going down easier than the first. A phantom breeze swept through his hair and scattered debris along the dark wood floors, lifting the corners of the sheets draping the nearby upholstery.

“You once told me a man’s past will always find him, no matter how far he runs.”

He closed his eyes, resting the decanter in his lap and tracing the spout with the pad of this thumb.

“Let’s just hope I got a big enough head start on mine.”

.   .   .

His lungs were on fire, pumping furiously as he ran with all his strength, struggling to stay upright, to keep one foot moving in front of the other.

His shoulder collided with another tree. He gasped in pain, choking back a cry, terrified of giving away his location, though he sensed the predator gaining speed on him all the same.

A branch snapped at his back with a deafening crack. He stifled a shout of terror, losing his footing and stumbling, catching himself against a trunk, jagged bark breaking the skin of his palms.

Blood was thick on the air.

As was a rumbling growl.

Gaining speed rapidly.

He dug deep into his last reserves of strength, squinting into the darkness as sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging, blinding–

Steam seared his neck as an enormous weight collided against his back with such force it tore him clear off his feet, knocking the air from his lungs.

He threw his arms out, shouting as he made impact with the hard-packed earth, wrist snapping beneath his crushing weight.

Claws shredded through his shirt, the fabric falling to the dead leaves in filthy scraps.

He tried to move, to crawl, to brace his arms beneath him, but the weight centered atop his spine was immovable, solid, scorching.

And then a large hand braced the back of his neck, shoving his face into the dirt, suffocating him.

_“Alright, Potter.”_

Lips grazed his ear, the low voice a rumbling purr that shook the earth and split the sky.

_“Let’s try this again.”_

Harry gasped, eyes snapping open as he reared forward.

The decanter slipped from his lap and hit the floor with a jolting thud.

He pushed away from the wall, grasping his shirt and pulling it away from his sweat-slicked chest, panting, head turning from side to side as he searched for the predator in his midst.

Yet the dark corners of the room bore no glowing eyes, no monstrous wings or gleaming fangs.

He wet his lips, bracing the floor with his hands as he tried to gain his bearings.

And then he remembered where he was.

And why he was there.

His head snapped up, eyes latching onto the slats covering the windows. Moonlight cut through the gaps, bright and insistent.

He pushed shakily to his feet, holding his battered wristwatch up to the pale glow and gritting his teeth.

“Shit.”

.   .   .

Ron turned, ears visibly perking at the sound of approaching footsteps.

And then his gaze narrowed. “You’re late.”

Harry stepped onto the curb. “I’m sorry, I ran as fast as I could.”

His friend sighed, turning to face the tall gate once more. “It’s alright. Fred and George dropped me off not long ago.”

“They have a car?”

“They know how to hotwire one.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Wonderful.” He gazed at the rod iron barrier before them. “So, how are we supposed to get in?”

“We climb.”

He raised a dark brow, glancing sideways. “You up for that?”

Ron drew back. “What the hell does that mean?”

Harry smirked, raising his hands. “Just checking.”

“I’ll have you know, just because I don’t prance around with my shirt off for a bunch of rabid spectators doesn’t mean I have anything to hide.”

“Boxers don’t prance, dipshit. We parry and pivot.”

“What’s the difference?”

Harry shook his head with a smile, sweeping an arm forward. “Alright, Adonis, you go first. Show me how it’s done.”

Ron stretched his arms over his head, rotator cuff popping loudly. “Watch and learn, my friend.”

Harry barely suppressed a smirk, watching as the man stepped forward and grabbed the bars above his head, grunting low and attempting to hoist himself up, shoes scrambling for purchase.

He shook his head, leaving Ron to his struggles and heading to the gate entrance. He tugged the chains, testing their strength, keeping view of his friend from the corner of his eye.

“Need a boost?”

“Fuck off.”

He smiled, tugging the chains once more.

Ron groaned, landing on the pavement with a pained grunt, panting hard. Harry glanced over, emerald eyes gleaming.

Ron pressed a hand to his side. “I need to take a running start is all.”

“Don’t bother. The gate is open.”

He blinked, straightening. “What?”

“The padlock’s broken.”

Ron shook his head, stepping closer. “There’s no way. I checked it myself.”

Harry gestured forward. “It’s busted. They just knotted the chain.”

“No, I checked the lock before you arrived.”

He began to pull the chain loose. “Then maybe it busted with laughter watching you try and scale the wall.”

Ron scowled without heat, watching Harry pull the large metal door open and stepping through. “Hilarious.”

Harry shrugged, following him inside. “I thought so.”

He closed the door at their backs, then glanced around the moonlit landscape beyond.

Ron gestured to the right with his chin. “The newspaper photo showed the pond in the background.”

Harry nodded, noting that the perimeter of the park was awash with orange street light. “Stay out of view of the fence.”

They journeyed off the designated path, heading through the grass and deeper into foliage for cover. They traversed quietly for several minutes, until Harry broke the permeating silence against his own better judgment.

“Ron, are certain Gin didn’t sneak out?” He hurried on quickly, sensing his friend’s reaction. “I only ask because if she was meeting someone then we have another lead to follow.”

Ron glanced at him sharply, face hidden in shadow as they stepped over a rotting log. “Who would she be meeting on a Wednesday night?”

“Friends? Co-workers? A boyfriend?”

"We've spoken to all her friends. The women in her office are as old as our mom and she doesn't have a boyfriend."

Harry sighed, maneuvering around a row of thorny bushes. “Are you sure about that?”

A heavy beat.

“She loved you, Harry. It broke her heart when you left.”

He rubbed his brow, a heavy weight settling upon his shoulders, slowing his steps.

“Ron, we never–”

“It broke all our hearts.”

Harry swallowed heavily, focused upon the dark ground. “I had to go. I had to get away from it all.”

Ron pushed aside a low hanging branch. “It wasn’t the leaving that hurt. It was the silence. You never wrote. Never called. Never responded to any of our messages.” He glanced sideways. “We didn’t even know if you were still alive. When you didn’t reply to my last letter I thought–”

“I’m so sorry, Ron.” Harry met his eye, heartbeat echoing in his ears. “From the bottom of my heart. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to hurt anyone.”

His hands opened and closed convulsively, step faltering. “I didn’t know how to handle it, and I didn’t handle it right. I wish I could go back and change things. You’ve no idea how much I wish I could go back.”

He wet his lips, gazing forward, seeing nothing but a dark haze of trees and fractured moonlight. “Maybe then Gin would still be here. Maybe she wouldn’t have–”

“It’s not your fault she’s gone, Harry.” Ron braced his shoulder, slowing his tracks. “If anything it’s my fault for not hearing her get taken–”

“Ron.” Harry gripped his shoulder as well, arms bracketing one another. “If I can’t blame myself, then neither can you.”

Ron gazed at him for a long moment, at last dropping his hand and shifting out of reach. “I’m not stupid, Harry. She’s been missing for two weeks. I know what all the statistics say.” He set his jaw, glancing away. “But I can’t think about it. I can’t.”

He started forward once more, pace steady, voice calm.

“Seven years ago, mom woke up screaming in the night. She had a terrible nightmare but couldn’t remember what it was about. She spent hours pacing the house, scrubbing the floors, washing every dish in the pantry, said she had a bad feeling she couldn’t shake. And then she didn’t eat for three days. We thought she was sick, or going mad, and had no fucking idea what to do.”

Harry nodded solemnly, following along beside him. “I remember.”

“I know you do. And you were there when the letter came.” They emerged from the wooded area, stepping onto a narrow pebbled trail. “Bill was shot the same night she woke up screaming. The very same night.” He glanced sideways, eyes glittering in the pale beams of moonlight. “She knew the moment he died. An entire ocean away and she felt the bullet tear through her own chest.”

Harry sighed deeply, focusing on the path.

Ron edged closer. “I know it sounds crazy, but you hear about this kind of thing all the time. A mother’s connection with her kids.” His voice turned low, eager. “And she can feel Ginny’s alive, Harry. She _knows_.”

They turned the corner, the pond appearing directly ahead. “Maybe it’s all madness. Maybe the nightmare was a coincidence. Maybe our gut instinct is nothing but buried desire.”

They started across the wooden bridge.

“But I _have_ to believe my sister is still alive.” The water shimmered beneath them, encrusted with black diamonds. “And if she’s not…”

Several beats passed, their heavy footsteps echoing along the beams.

Ron swallowed, shoulders squaring. “Then I have to bring back proof to my family. To my mother.” He lifted his chin. “I have to bring them closure.”

Yellow-dyed rope became visible, tied to either end of the exit ramp, along with a posted sign that was too far away to read.

Ron sighed. “And I need it just as badly.”

Harry nodded, recognizing the police insignia on the bottom corner of the poster.

“We’ll find her, Ron.” He wet his lips as they drew closer to the crime scene. “One way or another, we’ll bring her home.”

Ron opened his mouth but before he could reply a twig snapped ahead, loud and distinct.

They froze in their tracks.

“Did you hear that?” Ron whispered, eyes wide.

“Yes.”

“Did you bring the gun?”

"It was probably just a raccoon or–"

“Did you bring the _gun_ , Harry?”

“Ron, I can’t just wave a gun around in Central Park.”

“Fine. I will.”

He reached into his coat and withdrew a gleaming pistol.

Harry reared back.

“Ron, put that away!”

“It’s 3 a.m. Anyone walking around is up to no good.”

“ _We’re_ walking around you fucking lunatic!”

Another twig snapped, louder, closer.

Ron raised the gun, pointing it ahead.

"Ron, put it away! What if it's a night watchman?"

He set his jaw, searching the treeline. “What if it’s a killer returning to the scene of his latest crime?”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “Ron, I’m really sorry.”

His friend blinked, glancing sideways. “For what?”

Harry’s hand shot out with lightning speed, gripping the man’s wrist and twisting his arm, stretching the tendons.

“Ah! What the fuck, Harry!”

“Drop it.”

“Jesus Christ!”

He tightened his hold, causing Ron to bend, desperate to alleviate the pressure.

“ _Drop it_.”

“Fine!”

He opened his hand, the gun hit the bridge with an echoing thud.

They both peered down at it.

And then a large shadow passed overhead, moving rapidly across the wooden slats and their grappling forms.

They went rigid, springing apart and glancing up.

The sky was clear, stars hidden behind a thick layer of pollution and city light. But the moon watched them steadily, nearly full.

There was a wet splash several feet away. They spun on their heels, gazing over the railing.

The water rippled heavily.

“Harry–”

“Shh.”

Harry gripped the railing, straining to listen.

At first, he could only hear his own heartbeat and Ron's panting breath, but then another twig snapped, followed by the sound of movement in the brush.

Ron spun to face the woods. “Someone is on the other side!”

He reached down and reclaimed the gun, then bolted forward, sprinting down the short stretch of remaining bridge.

Harry took off after him.

“Ron, stop!”

He slowed to duck beneath the yellow rope, carefully sidestepping the marked crime scene, and then raced ahead once more.

They were halfway to the trees when a light appeared at their backs, reflecting off the leaves.

“Who’s there?”

They both halted, spinning around on instinct.

Harry’s heart stuttered painfully. “Fuck. Nightwatch.”

The spotlight fell on their faces, blinding.

“I see you! Don’t move!”

“Run!”

They sprinted for the trees.

“Stop!”

Harry could hear the guard’s rapid footfalls along the bridge as he gave chase, and then they emerged into the woods and he became distracted by branches slapping him in the face, clawing at his hair and clothing.

He paused behind a thick trunk to catch his breath, glancing around rapidly.

“Ron!” He hissed, unable to see or hear his friend.

_Fuck._

“Hey! You!”

Harry froze, every muscle tensed to the point of pain as footsteps crunched at his back, the flashlight beam appearing just to his left, bouncing off the bushes.

He braced himself, caught–

The footsteps turned, heading in another direction, the light passing the tree at his back and cutting to his right.

The watchman was so close Harry could hear him breathing.

“Stop right th–”

He cut off abruptly, the sound of a wet crunch quick to follow.

Harry blinked, every survival instinct flaring to life and demanding he run.

But all he could think of was Ron.

And suddenly, a familiar scent filled the air, permeating his lungs, suffocating.

Blood.

His heart thundered.

He darted out from his hiding spot, spotting a uniformed man in a nearby clearing, face turned toward the sky, illuminated by moonlight.

Revealing wide, terror-filled eyes.

Harry slowed his steps, jaw hanging loose as he caught sight of another man pressed against him, face hidden behind his neck.

Harry stumbled back, unnerved, confused, and tripped over a rock embedded in the soil.

The second man lifted his head, cocking it like a bird, eyes darting in Harry’s direction.

Harry hit the ground with a muffled thump, biting back his groan, terrified to even breathe.

The man’s chin was coated with a gleaming black liquid. He released the guard and wiped a dark sleeve over the mess, smearing it, eyes continuing to search the trees.

The guard staggered back, sputtering, clutching his neck and dropping his flashlight. It rolled along the ground, illuminating twisted roots.

And then he collapsed to his knees, trembling violently before falling to his face in a motionless heap.

Harry was frozen, unable to move, to think. And then the stranger stepped forward, face awash with moonlight.

The black liquid shone crimson.

He took another step, entering the treeline and submerging himself in shadow. His eyes gleamed with unnatural brightness, like a cat in the dark.

“I know you’re there.”

Another step.

“I can hear your heartbeat.”

Harry swallowed.

The stranger stopped.

And turned his head, gazing directly upon him.

He smiled, teeth gleaming. “There you are.”

Harry regained his senses in a heady rush, leaping to his feet as the man surged forward, swinging out a hand, fingers curled like claws.

Harry dodged the strike, effortlessly slipping into boxing stance, striking out with all his strength and clipping the stranger in the jaw.

The man’s head flew back, but his feet remained fixed in place.

Harry blinked.

The man slowly brought his face forward, eyes gleaming. “My, my, _what_ do we have here?”

“Harry!”

Harry instinctively gazed to the side, drawn by Ron’s frantic voice.

The distraction cost him greatly.

The stranger caught him around the middle with the full force of his body, driving them both off their feet and onto the uneven ground.

Harry aimed a well-placed punch to the man's kidney, earning a low groan of pain and unbalancing him enough to roll the imposing weight off.

Ron emerged from the dark trees.

“Shit!”

“Ron!” Harry met his wide gaze. “Run!”

The man tackled him from behind, causing his chin to strike the ground with brain-rattling force.

Ron raised the gun, arm trembling. “Get off him!”

The man reared back, gazing up as he wedged a knee mercilessly into Harry’s spine.

And then the weight was gone.

Harry gasped for air, peering forward and gaping as the stranger appeared directly before Ron, crossing the ten-foot divide in a matter of a fractured heartbeat.

Ron gasped, lurching back and firing the weapon in shock.

The bullet struck the man in the stomach.

They all froze.

The stranger gazed down, running his hand along his smoking middle.

And scowled.

“This was my favorite shirt, asshole.”

Ron swallowed as the man gazed up with narrowed eyes and struck him across the face with a mighty blow, knocking him off his feet and into a tree.

“Ron!”

Harry leaped to his feet and charged the man from behind, once more knocking them both to the ground.

The stranger erupted into laughter, deep and melodious.

“Now you’re _much_ more interesting than your friend.” He twisted in Harry’s grasp, rolling over to face him. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Harry punched him in the face, knocking his head to the side and splitting his bottom lip.

He licked away the blood with a feral smile.

Harry gaped.

And then peered up as Ron stirred, rubbing his head and crawling for the fallen gun.

“Leave it, Ron! Run!”

Ron dragged his hands through the grass, feeling for the metal. The stranger thrashed in Harry’s grip, punching him in the cheek. Harry’s turned with the blow but remained fixed, pinning him in place.

Ron staggered to his feet, swaying precariously and aiming the weapon.

“Get up, Harry!”

Harry shook his head, panting with exertion. “A bullet won’t stop him.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

The stranger tilted his head back, meeting Ron's bewildered gaze upside down. “A bit slow to the uptake, aren't you?”

Harry scowled. “Shut up!” He punched him again, blood from his torn lip smearing across his cheek and streaking Harry’s knuckles.

The stranger laughed anew, eyes glittering like jewels inset in a pale face. “Just _wait_ until I tell them about you.”

Harry panted heavily, vision tunneling. “Tell who?”

The laughter turned manic. Harry grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him off the ground, bringing his face closer.

“Tell _who_?”

His eyes widened, pulse thrumming as the stranger's lips parted into a Cheshire grin, canine teeth elongating into ivory daggers before his eyes.

“ _Everyone_.”

He threw Harry off with a powerful surge, causing him to skid backward along the grass, watching in abject horror as the man sprang to his feet and advanced on Ron.

His friend took aim and fired, clipping the man in the shoulder.

But he continued to advance, laughing all the while.

Ron fired again.

And again.

And again.

Until the chamber ran empty, the trigger emitting only a hollow click. The stranger stopped just before him, sighing with exaggerated weariness.

“Fun as this is, you’ve gone and made me late.” He flashed a wicked grin, fangs gleaming in the pale moonlight. “So we’ll have to end the party here.”

Harry released a low growl, earning both their attention as it shook the leaves on all sides, and then he sprinted forward with lightning speed.

The stranger pivoted and met him halfway, creating a powerful collision that split the ground and rattled the trees. Harry met Ron’s eye as they tumbled to the ground.

“Run! Get help!”

“But–”

“Go!”

Ron nodded tightly, staggering back and darting into the trees, disappearing from sight.

Harry turned his focus to the snapping jaws before his face, keening laughter pouring out from between the glittering fangs.

“What the hell are you?”

The man tossed his head back and laughed harder.

Harry shook his head, pressing against his windpipe with the heel of his palm.

“Where is Ginny Weasley?”

The stranger tilted his head, lifting a brow. “Don’t know her, is she hot?”

Harry growled anew, punching him.

“ _Where is she_?”

The man licked the blood from his swollen lip, voice thinning as the pressure at his neck intensified.

“I _don't_ know. But I assure you, I intend to find out.” His eyes flashed, glowing like a nocturnal predator. “And I’ll tell her you said hi.”

Harry snarled, drawing back a fist, but before it could connect the stranger threw him off. Harry scrambled back, strength rapidly waning. The man seemed to sense his mounting fatigue, smiling with triumph.

So Harry pushed to his feet and ran, as hard and as fast as he could, stray branches cutting into his arms and face and neck.

The stranger was hot on his trail, footsteps rapidly approaching.

The familiarity of the wooded chase gave rise to primal fear, instilling Harry with a sudden burst of speed, barely evading the stranger’s reaching hand.

He burst through the trees into a small clearing with a tall gazebo at its center.

And then the ground disappeared.

He tumbled headfirst down a steep hill, rolling endlessly for a handful of seconds, only to regain his footing on the final roll, the entire spill appearing more choreographed dance move than fall.

The stranger leaped the hill in three single bounds, seeming to defy gravity, his shadow chasing Harry along the grass.

The gazebo was fifteen feet ahead, half hidden by scaffolding. Harry reached out a desperate hand, the side of the structure just within reach–

A heavy thud sounded beyond his shoulder, followed by an unrelenting hand at his collar, ripping him back.

Harry’s fingers gripped the very end of a metal pole, sliding it free of its slot in the scaffolding frame as he flew backward.

He rolled across the grass, the pole landing at his side, nestled in the weeds. The stranger hovered above him, the moon at his back, casting his face into darkness and his eyes into hell flame.

"As I said, this was fun." He licked his lips once more, blood streaking his teeth. Harry reached out and gripped the pole. "But you've ruined my shirt and made me terribly late, so playtime's over."

He dove.

Harry pulled the pole upright, closing his eyes and cringing back as the man fell upon it, impaling his chest through the center.

The stranger gasped and sputtered, unable to stop his downward momentum as he continued to slide towards the ground, black bile oozing from his mouth in a continuous stream, splattering Harry’s chest and splashing his face.

Harry rolled away as the man slumped to the ground, the pole sticking straight up, gleaming black in the moonlight, as though coated in crude oil.

“Harry!”

He jolted, scrambling back. Ron emerged from the treeline above, stopping at the top of the hill.

“Harry!”

He began to skid down, fighting to stay upright. Harry scrubbed at his face, smearing more blood and dirt across his cheeks with his filthy palms.

Ron emerged into the clearing and then slowed, taking in the sight.

“Fuck.” His gaze widened, landing on Harry’s huddled figure. “Are you…”

He eyed the black substance soaking his friend’s shirt, staining his face and neck.

“...okay?”

Harry fought to catch his breath, unable to look away from the body. “I didn’t mean to–”

He shook his head, at a loss. The man’s face was frozen, twisted in a grimace of agony. His tongue turned black and wilted, skin so pale it was nearly translucent, blue and purple veins showing in stark relief.

“I grabbed the pole on instinct… I didn’t know what else to do.”

Ron edged closer, giving the body wide berth. “It’s alright.”

He crouched down, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry jerked away, eyes wide and dazed. Ron held up his palms.

“Harry, it’s me, calm down!”

Harry clutched handfuls of grass at either side. Ron watched him steadily. “Just breathe.”

Harry nodded, pushing wearily to his feet, hands trembling violently.

Ron followed suit, watching him closely.

“I shot him six times.” He wet his lips. “Harry, I emptied the bloody gun into him. He wasn’t even phased.” He shook his head. “He isn’t normal.”

Harry remained transfixed by the body. “I’d say he’s pretty fucking far from normal, alright.”

Ron stepped closer. “What if there are more like him? What if they’re the ones who took Gin?”

Harry set his jaw, hands curling into fists. “Then we’ll find them, and we’ll find her.” He drew his shoulders back. “But first...”

He met Ron’s eye. “Help me move him.”


	2. Where the Heart Is

_“It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it.”_  
~ Robert Louis Stevenson, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde  
.   .   .

Ron adjusted his hold on the legs, staggering through the grass. “Jesus Christ, is this fucker filled with rocks?”

Harry shook his head. “At this point, nothing would surprise me.”

Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision with a sharp sting. He was desperate to wipe it away but his hands were secured beneath the corpse’s armpits, trapped under the weight of the torso.

For how withered the body appeared, it was shockingly heavy. Getting it up the hill had been a harrowing feat, both men grunting and groaning as they rolled the dead weight foot by foot, collapsing into a painting heap as soon as they reached the summit.

Harry had regained his breath first and used those few extra minutes to journey back into the woods.

To check on the night watchman.

His body was cool and bloodless as Harry rolled him onto his back, revealing a gleaming neck wound to the narrow strip of moonlight above. He’d taken a silent moment to close the man’s pale lids, and then selfishly combed the area for any evidence of his or Ron’s presence, not wanting either of them to be pinned for the bizarre and gruesome slaying.

After hauling their attacker’s body for another twenty minutes they finally neared the perimeter of the Park, the gate barely visible in the distance, backlit by a violet sky. Harry hoisted the corpse higher, feeling a surge of adrenaline with freedom so close at hand. Ron didn’t seem to share the sentiment, nearly losing his handhold as he grappled with the bony knees.

Harry wet his lips, tasting a salty pool of sweat collected atop. “Are you sure they’ll be here?”

Ron grimaced, stumbling over a rock. “I told them to give us an hour.”

Harry nodded, praying for one thing to go right this night.

As they reached a row of tall hedges Ron craned his neck to the side, spine bending as his gaze swept over the street.

“I see them.”

Harry’s heart soared. “Thank God.”

They emerged from the bushes and out of the shadows, visible to the two onlookers watching their movements from the otherwise empty road.

Fred stood away from the side of the blue Studebaker. “Holy–”

“–fuck.” George leaped down from his sprawling perch on the hood.

Ron and Harry stopped at the gate, the body wedged awkwardly between them as they struggled to open the door.

Ron peered through the bars. “I can explain–”

“Potter, it really _is_ you.” Fred stepped closer, signature smirk in place.

George followed suit, mirroring his twin’s expression. “We thought little Ronniekins was jerking our chain.”

Harry blinked, trying to maintain his grip while backing onto the sidewalk. “Hey.”

“Hey, he says!”

“After pulling a Houdini for two years.”

“And returning with an impressively fetching scar.”

“Quite impressive. Were you pirating the high seas, Captain Potter?”

Daggers flashed in Ron’s narrowed gaze. “Is no one going to mention the goddamn body we’re hauling out of the woods?”

They arched matching brows, speaking in unison. “We hadn’t noticed.”

Ron shook his head, face caught between a scowl and grimace. “Ha-fucking-ha, now get over here and help us.”

Fred raised his hands. “You know our One-Felony-Per-Day rule.”

George tipped his chin toward the vehicle. "Commandeering the ride put us at our limit."

Ron rolled his eyes as he and Harry neared the curb with their exhaustive haul. “Then at least open the trunk.”

George reached into his back pocket and fished out a gleaming set of keys. "I suppose aiding and abetting aren't the _worst_ we’ve gotten up to on a Thursday morning.”

He stepped off the curb and unlocked the hatch, revealing the cargo hold. Harry peered inside, pulse thrumming.

“This car is stolen?”

Fred smirked anew. “Borrowed.”

George flanked the opposite side, resting an elbow on the roof. “With every intention of returning.”

Harry narrowed his gaze, glancing between them. “The tarp was already in here?”

“Ron suggested we bring it. Just in case.”

He looked beside him. “ _What_?”

Ron avoided his accusing stare, dumping the legs into the trunk. “I wanted to be prepared.”

Harry lowered the torso down with more care. “Prepared for what, exactly?”

His friend scowled as he stepped back, shaking his hands as though trying to rid himself of a dark taint. “What do you think?”

“Perhaps you crazy kids can have your lover’s quarrel on the road?” George drummed his fingers along the hood. “Best not to linger beside a crime scene with a body in tow.”

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing dried blood and dirt in sweaty streaks across his tanned flesh. “Let’s wrap him, make it easier to move him out.”

He and Ron stepped forward, pulling slack fabric from beneath the body and tucking it over top. The encroaching dawn illuminated the pale tarp, making Harry’s grime-caked hands stand out in stark relief.

Fred cringed. “Jesus, Harry, you look like you crawled out of the pits of hell.”

Harry drew back, slamming the hatch door shut. “Let’s just go.”

He and Ron piled into the backseat while Fred took shotgun and George slid behind the wheel. Within seconds they were peeling out, tires screeching along the asphalt and engine revving.

Harry glared into the rearview mirror. “Can you _please_ try and be a little less obvious?”

Fred turned in his seat, eyes bright as the sun slowly breached the horizon ahead. “Nervous, Harry?”

George glanced in the mirror as he made a left turn. “Worrying causes premature wrinkles.”

Fred smiled. “And you don’t want to distract from the youthfulness of your scar.”

Ron gripped the seat back in front of him, shoulders tense. “We’re driving around in a stolen vehicle with a body in the trunk, will you two act serious?”

Fred sighed. “We’ve upset Ronniekins.”

His twin placed a hand over his heart. “Poor Ron Ron. He’s extra sensitive today.”

Their younger brother glowered. “Are you two this idiotic when you’re searching for Gin? No wonder we haven't found anything.”

The twins’ expressions rapidly sobered, a raging sea in their eyes. “We’ve torn this goddamn city apart.” Fred leaned in, tone scathing. “Don’t you _dare_ question our dedication to finding her.”

Ron’s gaze narrowed as he gripped the seat harder, fingertips turning white against the dark leather. “Then why don’t you try asking us what happened tonight?”

George sighed heavily, making a right turn. “Alright, what happened tonight, Ron?”

“We were attacked.”

Fred tilted his head. “At the crime scene?”

“We never made it that far.”

Harry pushed the sweat-matted hair off his forehead, drawing the man’s focus.

“And at what point was Harry pushed into a vat of oil?”

Harry’s jaw ticked as he gazed through the window at the rapidly passing scenery, orange sunlight spilling across the earth.

“It’s not oil.”

Fred arched a brow.

Harry turned his head, meeting his eye.

“It’s blood.”

Fred blinked. And then smiled. “Ah.” Dimples appeared on either cheek. “So you were attacked by a cartoon?”

Ron slammed a fist into the seat back, causing it to rock and its inhabitant to laugh.

“This isn't a joke!”

“Calm down, Ronniekins–”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Everyone shut up!”

They all jolted at Harry’s booming command, laughter ceasing immediately. He set his jaw, gesturing at the window.

“George, make a left here.”

The man did as bade without question or argument, but his twin shook his head.

“We’re better off dumping the body in the river.”

Harry leaned back, limbs weighted with exhaustion. “We’re not dumping it.” He rested his head along the top of the seat. “Not before we figure out what the hell we’re dealing with.”

He closed his eyes, allowing the steady hum of the engine to calm his turbulent thoughts. “I know someone who can help.”

* * *

Hermione spun in place, wielding a shoe in one hand and a stack of papers in the other.

“ _Where_ are you?”

She hurried to her desk, setting the shoe on the counter and bracing her hand along the wood, leaning down to peer beneath it. The loose ribbon on her blouse swayed back and forth, attracting the unwavering attention of her cat.

He leaped onto the chair, batting at his prey, claws catching in the silk fabric.

“Not now, Crooks!”

She rose to her full height, rapidly scanning the books and files strewn about the surface of her workstation, no sign of the missing document.

_“Helen!”_

She jolted at the distant shout, closing her eyes and drawing a hand through the loose sea of her hair.

And then her gaze snapped open as she realized she forgot to plait it.

“Double shit.”

She abandoned the papers in hand and hurried across the room once more, stopping before a baroque mirror and piling her chaotic tresses atop her head in a haphazard bun.

Crookshanks jumped off the chair and darted to her side, arching his back and rubbing along her ankles, reminding her she also had on one shoe.

_This morning can’t get any worse._

She searched the side table for a spare bobby pin.

_“Helen!”_

Her jaw set, teeth grinding as she released her hair, watching it fall in a messy cascade across her bare shoulders.

“Coming!”

She stepped back from the mirror, nearly clipping an orange paw and earning a low throated mewl for her effort, before trotting down the hall, one heel clicking along the scuffed hardwood as she pushed open the door at the end.

“Good morn–”

Her eyes landed on the bed, heart seizing as she spotted the empty mattress, covers thrown to the floor.

She stepped inside. “Papa?”

But movement at the window calmed her racing pulse.

“Helen.” He twisted in the threadbare armchair, meeting her gaze. “I think Hermione is sick.”

Her shoulders dropped, breath evading her in a rush. "I'm fine, Papa."

He shook his head, gripping the armrests tightly. "There was a scarlet fever outbreak at the school, they sent a letter home–"

“That was a long time ago.”

She moved further inside the room, fighting to keep her movements unhurried, a Herculean task when she felt as though she could vibrate out of her skin at any moment. But he wasn't fooled by her ministrations, shaking his head more profusely as he made to stand. "We need to call a doctor–"

“It’s alright–”

“No! We have to call him! He needs to check on her!”

She dropped to her knees beside the chair, fitted skirt pulling tight across her legs.

“Shh.” She gripped his shoulders and gently pushed him back into the cushion. “I’ll call the Doctor. It’s okay.”

His wrought expression stabbed at her heart. “You’ll call?”

She nodded, cupping his cheek, brown and grey stubble scraping along her palm. “Yes, I’ll call him right now.”

He searched her eyes, his own unnaturally bright in the morning sun. “If anything happened to our little girl, I wouldn’t be able to survive it.”

She blinked, vision clouding with tears, lips curving into a pained smile. “You’re a good father.”

There was a knock at the front door.

He lifted his head, staring at the open hallway with a wide gaze. “The Doctor!”

She sighed, pressing him into the seat as he once again tried to stand, her fingers curling against the soft fabric of his terry robe.

“Stay here, I’ll get it.”

He swallowed heavily, watching her rise. “Mione hates shots.”

She nodded, starting for the hall. “I know. I’ll be right back.”

She rushed across the house as another knock sounded.

“Coming!” She unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door, immediately sagging into the frame. “Oh, thank god.”

“I’m so sorry I’m late.”

She shook her head, stepping back to allow the other woman inside.

“Don’t apologize, I’m grateful you were able to come at all. Thank you, Susan.”

Susan set her bag on the entry bench, catching sight of Hermione’s bare foot and smiling. “One of those mornings?”

Hermione dragged a hand through her hair, pushing curls from her eyes as she gazed upon her feet, wriggling her stockinged toes. “You’ve no idea. The shipment came early.”

Susan closed the door behind her. “You’ve got to go in on your day off?”

Hermione glanced up with a weary sigh. “There’s no one else who can–”

A loud thump sounded from the bedroom at the end of the hall, followed by a low voice and deep laughter.

Susan tilted her head, drawing Hermione’s focus back. “How is he today?”

“Excited. I tried to calm him down but I’m running late and can’t find the inventory list–”

“Hermione.” She gently grasped her arm, squeezing. “It’s alright, I’ve got him. You finish getting ready.”

Hermione smiled. “Thank you, I shouldn’t be gone long.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Susan released her and started down the hallway, knocking softly on the bedroom door before entering.

“Good morning, Professor.”

“Ah! Lettie! How nice of you to visit!”

Hermione rubbed her eyes and then darted into her office, only to trip over the edge of the rug just past the threshold. She gasped, catching herself against the side of the sofa.

And blinked.

Her pulse skipped as she caught sight of a paper peeking out from beneath the knit throw. She grabbed the fabric and whisked it away, heart soaring as the missing page came into view at long last.

She snatched it up, clutching it tightly overhead like a hard-won trophy and laughing hysterically, overcome with relief.

She wasted no time grabbing her leather case, unbuckling the top flap and sliding the paper inside, slinging the strap over her arm and charging headlong into the hall without preamble. She pulled her shawl off the coat rack and opened the front door, blowing a kiss to her furry housemate before slipping out, slamming the door in her wake.

Crookshanks continued to watch the barrier, bottlebrush tail flicking from side to side three times before the door flew open and his owner rushed back in.

She shook her head, running to her office with a scowl.

And grabbed her shoe off the desk.

“Christ.”

* * *

George killed the engine, raising a brow as he peered through the windshield. “ _This_ is where your friend lives?”

Harry leaned forward, gazing out the window into the darkened alley beyond. “He isn’t a friend.”

Ron shifted at his side, trying to catch a glimpse of their final destination past Harry’s shoulder. “And yet we’re bringing him a corpse.”

Fred shrugged, lips carving a crescent grin. “Come to think of it, it’s a _great_ gift for an enemy.”

His twin brightened, bouncing in his seat. “Ah, are we framing someone for murder? It’s been too long.”

Harry shook his head, opening his door and stepping onto the cracked cement. “I’ve got it from here.”

Ron opened his door a moment later, leaping up and peering over the roof as Harry started down the narrow divide. “Wait! I’m coming with you.”

Harry sighed, opening his mouth, but Ron cut him off before he could utter a syllable.

“Don’t even think of leaving me behind. Gin’s my sister. I have every right to be a part of whatever this is.” His eyes flashed. “I’m going in.”

Harry held his gaze for another suffocating beat before nodding with resignation, glancing to the men watching their exchange with open amusement.

“You two wait here.”

George saluted him. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

Ron slammed his door and walked around the front grill, falling in step beside Harry as he cut a path through the debris littering the alley. He carefully sidestepped a busted crate, cringing as a rat darted around his shoe, dragging bits of trash along from the nearby overflowing dumpster.

“Who the hell do you know who lives in an abandoned warehouse?”

Harry’s lips pressed thin as he stared ahead. “An old acquaintance.”

They reached a dead-end, a brick wall with a single wooden door, covered by a sliding metal grate and several padlocks.

Harry raised his fist and banged against the screen in rapid succession, arms tensing on instinct, only to glance over his shoulder as the engine fired to life at the mouth of the alley. Fred rolled his window down, lighting a cigarette and blowing a steady stream of smoke into the crisp, sewage-filled air.

Harry gazed forward as noise emanated from within the building, a muffled bang followed by a colorful curse. Ron drew back as footsteps followed. Harry rubbed his brow. And then the sound of sliding locks filled the alley, the door wrenching open a moment later.

“This had _better_ be good!”

Harry arched a dark brow, attempting to meet the man’s gaze through the thick glass goggles concealing the top half of his face. A thin cloud of smoke billowed out from behind his lithe frame, bitter and pungent.

“Potter?”

Harry smirked. “Hello, Nott.”

* * *

Hermione’s heels clicked loudly off the steps as she approached the center archway of the Met, gaze affixed to the blood red banners strung between the two-story columns along the front.

She sighed, shaking her head as reached the top, pulling open the gold filigree door and striding into the marble entrance hall.

“Hermione.”

A man materialized at her side, as he was prone to do, usually with some bit of urgent news in hand. She kept her quick pace through the center of the lobby, passing the concierge desk with a polite nod to the attendant.

“Good morning, Anthony. I came as fast as I could.”

His long legs kept easy pace beside her as they progressed over the cream tiles, footsteps echoing loudly across the dome- vaulted ceiling.

“That’s alright, the cargo was already unloaded into the–”

“Under whose authority?”

She stopped short, rounding on him quickly. He froze in place, eyes and mouth falling wide, no further sound emitted.

She arched a brow, tugging her shawl off her shoulders with force, sweat collecting along her nape.

“Anthony, under _whose_ authority?”

He swallowed heavily. “Um, well–”

“Mine.”

Her spine went rigid as she spun on her heel.

To face the man at the front of the room, watching her from his raised vantage point at the top of the steps. He began his graceful descent, suit and hair in immaculate condition as always, making her hyper-aware of the rapidly expanding circumference of her bun as it hungrily absorbed every ounce of humidity in the air.

“You’re late, Granger.”

She set her shoulder back, squeezing her case in one hand and her discarded shawl in the other. “I came as soon as I got the call.”

He pinned her with the full intensity of his glacial stare. "You got the call over an hour ago."

Her eyes narrowed as he reached the bottom level, approaching her slowly.

“I have responsibilities outside of the museum, Malfoy.”

He tilted his head, eyes holding her steady as he stopped directly before her. “And yet no social life to speak of.”

She rolled her eyes, glancing to the man beside her with a softer expression.

“Anthony, would you please start preparing the examination room?”

Relief stole across his boyish features. “Of course.” He nodded with deference to Malfoy before quickly making his way to the bank of brass elevators at the far wall.

She started in the opposite direction, entering a long and vaulted corridor. Malfoy kept pace beside her, hands tucked casually in the pockets of his tailored charcoal coat.

She set her jaw, gazing fixedly ahead. “You know we’re liable for any damage to the artifacts the moment we accept delivery.”

“The only way to examine the artifacts _is_ to accept delivery.”

“You should have waited for me, I have the inventory list–”

“You weren’t here. I made an executive decision. Considering I’m on the Board of Directors I’m allowed to do whatever the hell I want.”

“Your _father_ is on the Board. And you can bear the brunt of their wrath if anything is missing.”

He scowled, glancing down at her tense profile. “You’re a regular ray of sunshine today.”

She took a deep breath as they rounded the corner, reaching a narrow stairwell leading down. She gripped the railing tight. “Why are there adverts on the columns?”

“They set a date for the exhibit.”

She halted halfway down.

“ _What_? When?”

He stopped on the stair below, arching a pale brow. "Yesterday. The signs when up last night."

She awaited the rest in silence, tension radiating through her limbs. He seemed to sense her unease. And derive great pleasure from it, the corner of his lips turning up.

“Two weeks, Granger.”

She blinked, rocking back on her heels and nearly losing her balance. “Two…” She gripped the rail once more. “Shit.”

He reached out a steadying hand, smiling fully. “I don’t know why you’re in such a mood. You’ve worked with tighter deadlines than this.”

She wet her lips, brushing his hand aside as she continued her downward trek.

“I don’t have the same time to devote to the department as I used to.”

He glanced sideways at her as they reached the sublevel, the temperature dropping several blessed degrees.

“Is your father–”

“Let’s just look at the shipment.”

She lengthened her stride, outpacing him, grateful for the resounding silence at her back.

* * *

Harry held his breath as he navigated the metal stairwell, each step measured and slow as he descended backward with the body in tow. Ron stood a few steps higher, once more gripping the legs, though it was difficult discerning end from end encased so tightly in the tarp.

They both breathed a heavy sigh of relief as they reached the ground floor, leveling out their cargo. Ron’s elbow nudged a metal cart against the wall, rattling a set of liquid-filled beakers.

Nott surged forward, lifting his goggles into his dark hairline.

“Watch it! I spent hours preparing those mixtures!”

Ron directed a withering glare over his shoulder. “I’m more concerned with spilling the contents of my _head_ all over the fucking cement.”

“I doubt you have much to lose.”

He scowled but remained otherwise silent as their strange host directed the pair to a metal table situated in the center of the industrial space.

As they hoisted the heavy load atop the counter Harry glanced around the room, gaze caught by metal shelving along the back wall, overflowing with crates and beakers. Freestanding fluorescent lights illuminated the windowless space, revealing a long workbench covered in lab equipment, a microscope situated at the far end.

Ron blinked, glancing about the sterile environment as well, eyes lingering on a green, bubbling mixture stationed atop a bunsen burner. “What the hell is this place?”

Nott strode past without a glance, eyes affixed to the tarp-covered mass.

“My office.”

Ron began to speak but fell silent as the man turned to Harry, eyes narrowed and voice clipped.

“How much do you want for it?”

Ron glanced between the two men. “Wait, you want to pay _us_?”

Nott scowled, holding Harry’s gaze. “Why did you bring this idiot?”

His friend surged forward. “Who the hell do you–”

“Ron.” Harry placed a hand to his chest, halting his approach, then wet his lips, eyeing Nott carefully. “Consider it a gift. I just need you to do an autopsy first.”

Nott tilted his head, tone flat. “An autopsy.”

Harry lowered his arm, nodding. “Yes. I need to know… whatever you can tell us. Then it’s yours.”

Their host crossed his arms, lab coat pulled tight across his biceps, ill-fitting and splattered with an array of multi-colored stains.

“And how did you come by this body?”

Harry set his jaw, choosing his words carefully and avoiding Ron’s penetrating stare. “I stumbled across him this morning.”

“Was he still breathing when you stumbled?”

Harry glanced away.

Nott lifted a dark brow, sapphire eyes gleaming in the harsh lighting. “This isn’t a place to rid yourself of evidence, Potter.”

Harry met his gaze swiftly, gesturing to the table. “Just take a look. Trust me, you’ll be interested.”

“I have enough to worry about with the law. I won’t entangle myself in a homicide.”

“It was self defen–” He sighed deeply, rapidly pivoting tactics. “Nott, please, just take a look. I guarantee you won’t regret it.”

They held each other's eye for a short eternity, a silent battle of wills raging through the makeshift lab, the only sound in the universe the gentle rolling boil at their backs and Harry's thrumming heartbeat. Until at last Nott drew back, dropping his arms as he walked to a free-standing shelf.

“Open the tarp.”

Harry's pulse soared with victory. He wasted no time edging to the table and loosening the top of the fabric, pulling it apart down the center, revealing the pale, shriveled corpse from head to belt buckle.

Nott turned and began a methodical path forward, pulling a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves into place. Ron shifted uncomfortably but stepped closer as the man hovered above the body at last. Harry peered down as well, absently noting the corpse appeared even more husk-like than when they first loaded it into the car. He silently pondered whether it leaked in the trunk...

“You said this man died this morning?”

Harry was pulled from his musings, gaze snapping up. “Less than two hours ago.”

Nott met his eye.

And scowled.

“Is this some sort of joke?”

Harry sighed, bracing his hands along the metal table. “No.”

“Someone paid you to–”

“Nott. This man attacked me in the woods. Ron shot him six times and he barely flinched. It took driving a goddamn pole through his chest to stop him.”

Nott shook his head, smiling with venomous scorn. “You’re a regular riot.”

Harry leaned in, emerald eyes glinting. “If you don’t believe me, examine him for yourself. Then ask yourself if I’m really capable of pulling off such an elaborate prank.”

Nott’s jaw ticked twice before he leaned forward, voice low and edged with hostility. “I’m charging for my time.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

Nott reached beside him and gripped the edge of a narrow rolling cart, pulling it in, the top tray filled with gleaming surgical tools. Ron paled, stepping back as the man grabbed a pair of narrow scissors and began cutting open the dark fabric of the shirt. The material was stiff with dried blood. Nott parted the fabric, gazing at the bullet wounds along the chest and stomach, though for all intents and purposes they appeared more bee sting than entry wound, the withered flesh nearly healed over.

He sighed. “I need more light.” And set the scissors aside, pacing to the nearest standing lamp and dragging it closer, the metal scraping along the floor with cringe-inducing shrillness.

Ron studied the man carefully. “Are you a Doctor or something?”

Nott visibly bristled, releasing the base. “Or something.”

Ron inhaled slowly, about to say more, but fell reluctantly silent as Harry shook his head, imparting a meaningful look across the table.

Nott resumed his inspection, lifting the boy’s limp left arm and inspecting the crepe-paper skin wrapping the appendage tight. “The body is severely dehydrated.”

Harry swallowed, searching for the right words, settling on the simple truth. “It spewed a lot of… liquid.”

Nott arched a brow, lowering the limb. “You’re certain this came out of him?”

Harry gestured to his own filth-splattered shirt. “I’m positive.”

Nott reached for a cotton ball and metal dish, swiping the former along the side of blood-caked chin.

Harry gripped the edge of the table tight. “Some of the blood... isn’t his.”

Nott’s eyes flickered up. “The less I know the better, I’m sure.”

Harry watched in silence as he set the dish and swab aside, picking up an empty syringe instead.

“I’ll cross reference with a traditional sample.”

He retook the scissors and cut through the coat sleeve up to the elbow. A moment later he was swiftly inserting the needle. Ron glanced away while Harry leaned closer, watching with rapt fascination as a slow stream of black sludge steadily filled the glass vial.

Nott blinked.

“Blood takes eight to twelve hours to reach this consistency. Even so, this isn’t mere oxidation.” He wet his lips, drawing the needle free and holding the sample before the light. “Obviously he has some sort of preexisting condition.” He set the needle on the tray. “I need to check his liver.”

Harry ground his teeth, ears ringing with anticipation. “Why don’t you start with his teeth?”

Nott's brows drew together, but he walked to the head of the table without comment, tipping the head back and parting the lips with his gloved thumbs. At this angle, Harry saw just how gaunt the face was, the cheeks sunken and bruised. Nott pried the jaw apart, revealing black gums and a shriveled tongue to the green-tinged light.

“The mucous membranes are in an advanced stage of decay.” He tilted the head at an angle, leaning closer. “Which is highly abnormal given the time of death.”

Harry pressed his palms flat to the cold metal. “What about his fucking fangs?”

Nott glanced up, eyes narrowed. “His _what_?”

Harry shook his head, pushing back and walking around the edge of the table. He stepped beside the man and peered down.

Only to blink.

“How…” He glanced up at Ron. “They’re gone.”

Ron stepped forward, eyes wide as he gazed upon the short, even row of white teeth on prominent display.

Nott glanced between them, releasing the head. “Have either of you taken any hallucinogens in the last twenty-four hours?”

Harry scowled, slamming a fist on the table, the impact radiating along his arm and into his chest, echoing his resounding heartbeat. “Cut him open.”

Nott stepped back. “The state of his clothing tells me this is someone of repute. I can’t perform an autopsy.”

“Nott–”

“I only accept corpses of the homeless for a reason, Potter. I don’t need the police at my fucking door. This man looks like he resides in the Upper East Side.”

Harry pushed away from the table. “Nott, you’re a man of science. Look at this fucking thing.” He held the man’s gaze, slowly edging closer, fighting to keep his mania tightly contained. “You know this isn’t normal. Don’t tell me you aren’t burning with curiosity.”

Nott’s eyes gleamed in the artificial light.

Harry stepped closer yet. “No one saw us take him. The police won’t show up at your door.” He wet his lips, arching a dark brow. “You’re standing on the brink of a truly remarkable medical breakthrough–”

“Spare me the sales pitch, Potter.”

Harry stopped short, jaw clenching. Nott turned away, pulling off his gloves.

“It’s not only the police I’m worried about. I’ve no idea what connections this man has.”

Harry lifted his chin. "You didn't kill him." A heavy beat. "His friends will come for me."

Nott shook his head and began to walk towards the shelf, only for his path to be obstructed as Ron stepped forward, shoulders wide and eyes glinting.

“This man may be connected to a string of kidnappings. He may have taken my sister.”

Nott tilted his head, pinning him with a leveling stare. “And that’s my problem _how_?”

Ron’s fists clenched. “You fucking–”

“After you examine him we’ll dump him in the river.” Harry stepped forward, earning Nott’s attention. “You can take all the samples you want, and then we’ll destroy the evidence. The body will never be connected to you.”

They held each other's penetrating gaze once more, the silent phenomena feeling almost routine at this point. Harry’s chest began to slowly loosen as he saw the familiar gleam of acquiesce take root in the other man’s eyes a moment before he spoke, voice low and tight.

“I’ll hold onto him for twenty-four hours. Not a minute longer.”

Harry nodded. “We’ll be back for him in the morning.”

Nott glanced away, striding to the table and pulling the tarp back into place. As he did so the arm was pressed into the side, pushing something free from the inner lining of the coat.

Harry leaned in. “Wait.”

Nott blinked, glancing over his shoulder.

Harry stepped closer, eyes fixed upon the torso. “Something’s in his pocket.”

Nott caught sight of it a moment later, carefully grabbing the corner and tugging the item free. He held it up, centered before their gazes.

It was a narrow cylinder, roughly the length of Harry’s palm, comprised of a ceramic material. But what made it truly remarkable was the decoration covering the surface.

Ron tilted his head. “What the hell is that?”

Harry inhaled slowly, transfixed. “Are those…”

“Hieroglyphs,” Nott concluded, appearing equally intrigued. He slowly rotated the clay cylinder in the light, revealing row after row of symbols. “This is undoubtedly an item of great value. Someone will be looking for it.”

Harry swallowed, already sensing the storm to come. “Fantastic.”

Nott lowered the item, meeting his gaze. “How fortunate you’re so well acquainted with the country's second most renowned Egyptologist.” He blinked, considering. “Hm... the first now, I suppose.”

Ron shook his head. “You’re an asshole.”

Nott shrugged, setting the item aside as he pulled the tarp over the body. Harry reached forward and picked the cylinder up, shoulders tensing as his palm encased the cool ceramic. He could feel the etchings beneath his skin, the hairs along his forearm standing on end as a faint electrical current pulsed through his limb.

“Fred and George can drop us by her place on their way to work.”

Harry jolted, Ron’s voice seeming to echo all around him. He met his eyes and swallowed once more, though this time it was more of a convulsive gulp. “You should take it to her.”

Ron blinked. “Why–” Lightning lengthened his spine as realization struck. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Harry stepped back. Ron surged forward.

“You lying sack of shit.”

“I didn’t lie, I stopped by her house, she was already gone.”

“Bullshit.”

Nott sighed deeply, glancing up the from the table as he carefully tucked the tarp beneath the body. “Can you please take this intellectual debate to the alley? I’m trying to concentrate.”

Ron braced his feet apart, crossing his arms, a menacing force to behold. “You’re going to see her. Today.”

Harry closed his eyes, unconsciously reaching an arm across his chest, digging his fingertips against the back of his shoulder until the pain drew his focus, grounding him.

“Alright.” He released a long, searing breath, flames erupting to life within his gut, eager to consume him whole. “Just let me change into something a little less bloody.”

* * *

Hermione tapped her pen along the top of the clipboard, clutching the wood base with a cotton-gloved hand. Her eyes flickered rapidly over the list, then to the open crate situated before her. She leaned forward, peering into the mass of straw with a narrowed gaze.

"The busts appear intact, though they really should be in separate containers."

Malfoy rolled his head along his shoulders, tone and expression decidedly bored. “You know the British. Cheap bastards, the lot of them.”

She pointedly ignored the comment, walking further down the line and peering inside the next container.

“The amulets are accounted for.” She wet her lips, glancing to the labor workers lingering beside two standing crates. “Let’s get the sarcophagi out of the way.” She nodded, smiling warmly. “Whenever you’re ready, gentlemen.”

They stepped forward, lifting their crowbars and wedging them along the seam of the first box, slowly prying the lid free. It fell to the ground with a mighty clatter, causing her to jolt, and then her heart to seize as she caught sight of the gleaming treasure within. She stepped forward, carefully inspecting the front of the sarcophagus.

Malfoy moved closer, tucking his hands into his pockets. “And who’s this poor dead bastard?”

She studied the vibrant coloring in the painted headdress. “I assure you, he’s anything but poor.”

She smirked, eyes glittering as brightly as the inset gemstones along the molded gauntlets. “This is Amenemhat, first ruler of the Twelfth Dynasty. His reign marked the beginning of the Golden Age of the Middle Kingdom. He’s one of the most renowned Pharaohs to ever live.”

“How fascinating.” His tone suggested it was anything but. “And now his dried up corpse is on display for school children to gawk at. What a legacy.”

She tapped her pen once more, examining the gold plated torso, bits of tarnished silver peeking through. "He led a remarkable life, I assure you. But it's his death that garners the most intrigue."

He released a long, reluctant sigh. “Dammit, Granger. How do you always manage to make this bullshit sound fascinating?”

“Because it isn’t bullshit.”

He sidled closer, undeterred by her bite. “Alright, I’m sufficiently hooked. How did he die?”

She lifted her chin, studying the exquisite craftsmanship of the death mask. “Some accounts say his guards overthrew him in a bloody usurp, murdering him in his own chambers. Other stories hint it was his lover who organized the assassination.”

“Having personally experienced the wrath of a woman scorned, I’m inclined to believe the latter.”

“As am I.” Her lips curved with pleasure. “But perhaps that’s just wishful thinking on my part.”

She gazed down at her clipboard, missing his answering smile as he watched her check off another item on the list. And then her eyes snapped to the second standing crate. She nodded to the workers once more, giving them silent leave to continue.

“And this is the lover in question. His long-time consort and mother of his successor.”

They wedged their tools behind the lid, grunting low as they pried it loose, bent nails slowly exposed. She lowered her clipboard, anticipation swelling.

“Neferitatjenen.”

The lid broke away, crashing to the floor with an echoing crack.

Hermione’s breath was pulled violently from her lungs. She blinked, heart galloping wildly as she gazed ahead with unbridled fascination.

Malfoy moved beside her, tilting his face. “Wonderful, the heart of the esteemed collection is a massive cat.”

She slowly shook her head, focus unwavering. “It isn’t a cat.” She wet her lips, a strange pressure seated upon her chest, making it difficult to take a full breath. “It’s Sekhmet.”

An electrical current raced along her skin as she spoke the name aloud, static snapping at her hair. She took a tentative step forward, clipboard dangling forgotten at her side. “A goddess depicted as half woman, half lioness.”

He drew a hand through his perfectly styled coif. “Fantastic. The Queen was a crazy cat lady.” His eyes gleamed as he glanced sideways at her. “You should feel right at home with this exhibit.”

Her eyes slowly roamed the feline features, the curve of the almond eyes and slitted pupils glinting brighter than the rest of the face.

“Egyptians held cats in the highest esteem. A lioness was considered the fiercest and most cunning hunter on earth.” She stepped closer yet, an invisible thread knotted to her center, pulling her forward. “Sekhmet was a renowned warrior. The daughter of the sun god Ra, she was so powerful it’s said her very breath formed the deserts. Pharaohs prayed for her protection and guidance, her wisdom and strength.”

She stopped just before the sarcophagus, standing at eye level, her own distorted reflection staring back at her. “But she was also wild and passionate, easily offended, and her wrath could level a city as easily as save it. To appease her, the Egyptians held a festival of intoxication every year, plying themselves with wine and vices to pay tribute to her fiery nature.”

Her hand tightened around the clipboard, bending the papers, nails pressing crescent grooves along the pages. “But true to her feline disposition, she turned on mankind without warning.”

She slowly raised her gloved hand, fingertips hovering over the feline muzzle. For a stuttered beat it seemed to radiate a cloud of heat, as though breathing against her palm.

“Her father sent her to earth to destroy any mortal who opposed him. Her killing spree stained the sands red for decades. She became so possessed with bloodlust she began to devour her victims alive. The only way to stop her was to disguise wine as blood. She drank to excess and fell into a deep sleep, her rampage finally coming to an end.”

Her fingers curled around the empty air, a strange energy pulsing through the atmosphere, crackling, causing her blood to surge. "But by then she had taken so many lives she was tied to the underworld for all eternity. She ruled over the dead and undead alike, sending her demons to earth to punish sinners with disease, chaos, and pestilence."

The corner of her mouth lifted as her hand fell to her side. “A woman after my own heart.” She stepped back, pulling free of the siren call, taking a deep breath at last. “So yes, Malfoy, I think I’ll feel right at home with this exhibit.”

She gazed down at her paperwork, checking off another box.

Malfoy tilted his head, gaze faceted and fixed carefully upon her form. “Christ, Granger. If the history professors at Harvard delivered lectures with half as much allure I might have passed a test.”

She rolled her eyes, sliding the pen into its holder along the metal clasp. “Since that’s as close to a compliment as I’m sure to get from you this week, I’ll take it.” Then she lifted her head, glancing to the forgotten workers lingering at the wall. “Alright, let’s look in the final crate.”

They stepped forward at her bidding, quickly breaking open the last box in the row. She moved in close, meticulously inspecting the contents nestled upon the straw bed.

She nodded to a long, flat box heavily wrapped in brown parchment. “Those will be the texts. I’ll examine them downstairs.” Her gaze roamed higher. “Fertility statue.” Her finger skimmed along the list. “Canopic jars.” Her gaze narrowed as she peered at the clay pots and began silently counting them off.

Malfoy dragged a hand over his face, groaning low. “Are we done yet?”

Her spine stiffened as she reexamined her list.

Malfoy paced closer, seemingly restless. “Is there a problem?”

She lifted the first page, rapidly scanning the second. “My list accounts for ten jars, but I only see nine.”

She dropped the clipboard to her side and quickly approached the first crate, leaning over the top and raking her eyes over every item once more.

Malfoy sighed. “Maybe it’s a typo.”

She shook her head, heels clicking along the tile as she made her way to the second shipment container. “The British Museum doesn’t make typos. Least of all with their Egyptian collection.”

“Then maybe someone packed it in the wrong box.”

She sent a pointed glare over her shoulder. “ _Maybe_ you should help me look.”

He rolled his eyes but stepped forward all the same, reaching a hand into the nearest crate.

She spun on her heel. “Don’t touch anything!”

He scowled. “And _how_ am I supposed to help you look?”

“With your _eyes_.”

His jaw ticked. “Yes, Professor.”

Her spine straightened, shoulders squaring on instinct. An expression akin to regret flashed across his pointed features for the space of a heartbeat. He opened his mouth but she shook her head, directing her focus to the crates.

“I don’t see another item.”

She inspected the paperwork once more, flipping through each page repeatedly as though the answer would reveal itself if only she thumbed through them one more time. She gave up the futile effort at last, making her way to the final crate and reaching in with her gloved hand, carefully rotating the jars to read the hieroglyphs carved into the ceramic. She cross-referenced the markings with the list, drawing back several minutes later, pulse throbbing in her neck and wrists.

“I think we’re missing Neferitatjenen’s heart.”

Malfoy slowly approached, posture eased and tone flippant. “They forgot to pack it.”

She rounded on him, fire exploding to life within her chest, smoke billowing from her lips. “ _This_ is why you should have waited for me!”

His calm facade cracked like a plaster mask. “Don’t put this on me! It’s not my fault you weren’t here, the drivers had to leave!”

“Oh, did they have another Egyptian collection to drop off at the museum down the street?”

“Just contact the British Museum and–”

“Tell them we’ve lost one of their priceless artifacts? Yes, let me get _right_ on that!”

His jaw set as he bore down upon her with the full intensity of his Upper East Side pedigree. “We didn’t _lose_ it, you crazed shrew. The boxes were sealed when they arrived.”

She stepped back, mind rapidly spinning, temples pulsing in time to her skipping heart. "Their offices will be closed now." She rubbed a hand along her brow. "I'm going to contact the delivery company, find out of they had any incidents."

“Incidents?”

“Yes, Malfoy, incidents!”

He regarded her carefully. “You think it was stolen?”

She nodded absently, giving him her back as she took to rummaging through the crates with her gloved hand. “Thieves prey upon museums all the time.”

“Yes, to steal the fucking Mona Lisa! Who breaks into a crate to steal a single organ jar?”

“There’s a black market for artifacts, especially of Egyptian origin.”

A low-chime echoed through the corridor. She stood straight, glancing to the clock mounted to the far wall.

And sighed, closing her eyes.

Malfoy watched her closely, pale gaze narrowed. “Have somewhere to be, Granger?”

She smothered a groan, lids peeling open, eyes clouded with resignation. “I was supposed to relieve Susan an hour ago.” She shook her head, turning back to the crates. “Alright, I’ll call–”

“No, _I’ll_ call.”

Her head snapped to the side. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I’ll call the damn delivery company, ask if they had any armed robberies they forgot to make us privy to.”

She blinked, hand dropping heavily to her side. “What about–”

“I’ll contact you with any news. We’ll figure out what to tell the British Museum.”

She slowly rotated, facing him fully. “Are you sure?”

He rolled his eyes. “I think I’ll be able to manage. Now go. Your anxiety is creasing my suit.”

She couldn't contain her grin. “Thank you, Malfoy.”

She extended the clipboard. He accepted the crumpled heap without comment, seeming to have already forgotten her presence. She hurried across the room, drawing his attention as she trotted up the steps, shouting over her shoulder.

“Call me after you speak to them, regardless of what they say!”

“I’m your boss, you don’t give me orders!”

She could hear the smirk in his voice, pulling one of her own to the surface.

“You aren’t my boss! Call me!”

He shook his head, mumbling just loud enough for her to hear as she reached the landing.

“Vicious harpy.”

.   .   .

Hermione ascended the brick steps with her shawl slung over her arm and hair hanging loose, the wild tresses finally overcoming her meager attempts to sequester them in an orderly knot.

As she reached the front door she felt the unmistakable sensation of eyes upon her, making her stomach tighten and adrenaline seep from every pore.

She spun in place, gazing around the busy street beyond.

People milled in every direction, conversation and traffic heavy in the air. She swallowed lightly, searching for the steady gleam of eyes upon her.

But saw no one.

She released a sharp breath, quickly extracting her keys and sliding them into the lock. Her shoulders eased as she stepped over the threshold, the familiar fragrance of worn leather, parchment and ink permeating her senses, a soothing balm to her nerves.

“I’m home!”

A faint shuffle.

“We’re in the kitchen!”

She closed the door and set her keys in the Tibetan dish on the side table, throwing her shawl to the bench with a careless toss and kicking off her heels without ceremony. She made her way down the hall, Crookshanks trotting in from her bedroom and weaving his way between her ankles, nearly causing her to tip over. She emerged into the kitchen a moment later, expression pinched.

“I’m so sorry–”

“Don’t worry about it.” Susan stood from her stool with a smile. “Everything go okay?”

Hermione leaned into the center island, opening and closing her mouth before settling on a response.

“Yes.”

The other woman arched a dark brow. “That bad, huh?”

Hermione released a short laugh, pulling the remaining pins from her hair and dropping them to the counter. “We’ll figure it out.”

She cast her gaze to the breakfast table, its single occupant turned towards the French doors, peering out into the overgrown vegetable garden.

“How was he?”

Susan leaned in beside her. “Quieted down after you left. I read to him, made him some lunch. He ate most of it.”

Hermione nodded, pushing back. “Thank you, Susan. Please, let me pay you overtime for the extra hour–”

“Don’t be silly. You’ll pay me my normal rate.”

“I insist–”

Susan silenced her with a hand at her shoulder. “It’s alright, Mione. I know this is a lot for you to deal with.” Her brown eyes exuded a gentle warmth. “You don’t have to stress over me as well.”

Hermione felt her first genuine smile of the day emerge. “You’re a lifesaver.”

And then soft, insistent paws began clamoring at her hose-clad shin.

Hermione glanced down, grin widening. “If only _this_ one wasn’t so demanding.”

Susan chuckled, dropping her hand and turning for the doorway. “He’s a smart cat. A bit _too_ smart. Figured out how to get into the pantry from the icebox”

Hermione followed her into the hallway. “Lovely. If only a dog had followed me home instead.”

He mewled his displeasure, trailing at her side. She rolled her eyes. “I’m only joking, Crooks. You know I wouldn’t trade you for anything.”

They reached the front door. Susan leaned down and picked up her bag. “Dog may be man’s best friend, but a cat chooses who it’s devoted to. Makes the bond far more sacred.”

Hermione quirked a brow. “I’ll remind myself of that the next time he brings me a dead present in his mouth.”

Susan winked, grabbing the knob. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Have a good evening.”

She stepped onto the front stoop, the sound of the city invading the entry in an explosive chorus. “You, too, doll.”

And then she closed the door, taking the steady hum of noise and chaos with her, leaving Hermione with only festering, oppressive silence. She rubbed her palms along her skirt, backing into the hall and making it halfway to the kitchen when a hard knock echoed after her.

She spun in place. Crookshanks hissed loudly, hackles rising. Hermione blinked, stepping over him.

“Calm down, Crooks.”

She paced back to the door, sliding the deadbolt and pulling it open with a smile.

“Did you forget some–”

She froze in place.

Or rather, time itself froze, the universe grinding to a halt for an endless expanse of fleeting seconds. She blinked rapidly, clutching the frame until the wood groaned beneath her white-knuckled grip.

And then her lips parted of their own accord, the world spinning on its axis, hurtling her through the dark cosmos with a gut-wrenching jolt.

“Harry?”

* * *

Theo glanced at the smudged toes of his boots, concentrating on tying the rubber apron behind his back. Once the knot was secured he slid his goggles firmly into place and turned to the table, reaching for the bone saw on the tray just beside it.

He adjusted the standing light, wishing for the thousandth time since securing the location the building was properly wired for overhead electric. Rerouting the wiring would cost a small fortune, and he certainly couldn't have a journeyman over for an install. Keeping a low profile was paramount, no matter the sacrifice.

He set his jaw, making do with his limited resources and pulling the tarp open to examine the pale, sunken chest, every rib visible.

Strange, it seemed to be drying up more and more with every passing minute. Suddenly, Potter’s words filled his head unbidden, echoing through the endless caverns of his mind on an endless loop.

_“What about his fucking fangs?”_

He set the bone saw aside, making his way to the edge of the table and tipping the skull back, parting the jaws once more. The teeth still appeared normal, perhaps the most normal part of the entire affair.

He shook his head, stepping back.

“Ridiculous.”

He pulled his surgical mask up from his neck, covering his nose and mouth as he picked up the saw and switched it on, a gentle, comforting hum filling the air as the blade spun to life.

He pressed beneath the collar bone and began cutting a clean line through the sternum, the muscle tissue offering no resistance, sparse and withered as it was. But his focus was rapidly drawn away from the chest as something quite astounding occurred across the bare arms.

The veins swelled, thick and black, standing out in sharp relief against the translucent skin.

He turned off the saw and set it aside, lifting his goggles and leaning in close to inspect the dermis.

When a soft crack filled the air, sharp and distinct, sending him reeling.

He blinked, staggering to a halt and staring at the face, waiting for it to contort with life. The eyes remained blank and clouded. But the mouth…

The mouth was propped open.

Theo slowly edged forward, the rubber of his gloves creaking as his fists curled tight. He leaned in once more.

And gazed upon the lengthened canines pressing the bottom lip, gleaming fangs protruding proudly from blackened gums.

He smiled behind his mask.

“Marvelous.”

* * *

Harry rocked back on his heels, staring at the door across the street with steady intensity while manically carding his hands through his hair, every strand stiff with rebellious disarray.

He had watched her enter the brownstone minutes ago. She’d paused outside the door, gazing over her shoulder, hazel eyes sweeping the street beyond as though she could sense his presence. He’d held his breath, turning to marble where he stood, making no effort to hide, both terrified and desperate to be discovered.

But her eyes had stopped just before reaching him, her shoulders drawing in as she pushed the door open and disappeared from sight. He’d deflated on the spot, silently cursing himself for his endless supply of stupidity and cowardice.

And then the door opened a second time, a young, pretty brunette descending with a smile. He caught sight of Hermione in the entryway, smiling and waving farewell before the barrier closed once more.

He swallowed heavily, stepping forward and jogging a quick path across the street, sidestepping foot traffic from the nearby fruit stands. He took the steps two at a time, stopping outside her door with his heart lodged firmly in his throat.

He closed his eyes.

And knocked.

He heard her soft murmur from the other side, followed by her muffled voice as the lock slid free.

“Did you forget some–”

She opened the door, face appearing directly before him. Blood pulsed through his ears, deafening, his heart beating a call to war against his aching ribs.

“Harry?”

He swallowed heavily, swaying in place.

“Mione.”

She blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then leaped forward, arms wrapping his neck in a tight embrace. He immediately twined his arms around her waist, holding her so firmly her bare feet lifted off the ground. He buried his face in her loose hair, breathing deep, absorbing the gentle shockwaves of her broken sobs as she cried into his neck.

“You’re home.”

The pain in her voice wedged a metal spike through his heart. He couldn’t find his voice, couldn’t find his breath. She sniffled loudly, pulling her tear-stained face back and meeting his gaze.

Only to stiffen in his hold, hands clenching upon his wide shoulders.

“Your eyes.”

He sighed, desperate to glance away but unable to break her penetrating stare.

“It looks worse than it is, I promise–”

“Not the scar.” Her hands lifted, thumbs sweeping across the dark circles pooled beneath his bottom lashes. “The color.”

He swallowed heavily, Adam's apple bobbing high as he fought to keep his tone unaffected. "I suffered minor cornea damage, made the left iris lighter."

Her eyes flickered back and forth, studying his gaze with succinct astuteness. “Where did the gold come from?”

His pulse skipped manically, making him light-headed. He grasped her hips and pulled her back, setting her on her feet and forcing a tight smile.

“All that California sun, I suppose.”

She arched a brow, hands sliding down to brace his chest, palms framing his rapid heartbeat. “If you had bothered to show up to biology class you’d know just how idiotic that sounds.”

His palms felt clammy, sweat pooling along his nape and temples. He glanced over her shoulder, desperate for escape. “Can I come in?”

She blinked, glancing at the street, seeming to remember their surroundings. “Of course.”

She stepped over the threshold and swung the door wide, allowing him room to pass. He barely stepped onto the brightly woven rug when a sharp hiss filled the air, followed by a low growl. He glanced around the floor, searching out the source of the noise while Hermione shut the door.

“Crooks! Stop that!” She shook her head, turning the deadbolt. “Don’t mind him, he’s been a little terror all day.”

He finally caught sight of the orange bundle of fur watching him from the corner, amber eyes gleaming from the shadows.

“You got a cat?”

“A cat got me.” She followed his gaze, watching the scowling feline with unmistakable affection. “He followed me home from the corner market a few weeks after you left.”

He lifted his head, glancing sideways.

She met his eye.

Their gazes held, the air pressure building, sweltering, clouding his throat and saturating his lungs.

“Hermione.” His hands clenched. “I–”

“It’s alright.” She stepped forward, curling a hand over his shoulder, fingertips dangerously close to the source of all his misery. “You’re home now. That’s all that matters.”

He swallowed thickly, searching her warm gaze. “Gin.”

She closed her eyes, hand falling away.

“I know.”

She turned and started down the hall, the cat darting forward to follow at her heels, glancing at Harry over its shoulder, gaze slit.

“I took off work as long as I could to help search and hand out flyers. I've posted her photo to every bulletin board in the city." She sighed, removing a stray pin from her hair and raking her nails across her scalp, shaking the last of her constrained curls free. They danced over her bare shoulder in a shimmering lake. "I've called the police department so many times they recognize my voice."

Harry followed her into the open space at the end of the corridor, an office he had spent many years admiring as a boy, always fascinated by the one of a kind relics displayed across every available surface. She’d moved the furniture around, but the framed maps of Cairo and Alexandria hung in the same places as always, a comforting sight.

“I don’t know what else to do, Harry. I feel so useless.”

He shook his head, stopping at the center of the room, watching her pace restlessly.

“You’ve done all you can, Mione. Now it’s my turn. I’m helping Ron look.” His arms folded across his chest. “He thinks she’s still in New York.” He watched her closely. “What do you think?”

She slowed to a stop beside her desk chair, bracing the upholstered back. "I'm afraid to think otherwise."

He lifted his chin, voice low and measured. “Mione, was she seeing anyone?”

Her spine turned rigid. “What?”

“He says she was kidnapped from the Burrow.” He held her gaze steady. “But if she snuck out voluntarily we might get somewhere.”

She sighed, gaze drifting to a mounted display of ancient Greek coins. “I don’t know. After you left she became… withdrawn. We didn’t talk as much.”

The shadows stretched along the walls as the sun began its gradual downward descent, late afternoon slowly giving way to early evening.

“I should have made more of an effort to be there for her. She was hurting and I…” She closed her eyes, pressing a palm to her chest, sliding it higher to rub circles into the hollow of her throat. “I was only focused on my pain.”

“Mione, I’m so sorry.”

Her gaze flickered open, a beam of orange sunlight striking her across the face.

“It’s alright.”

He lowered his chin, his own visage consumed by shadow. “You don’t have to keep saying that. It’s okay to be angry. I deserve it.”

“I’m too exhausted to be angry.” She absently drummed her fingers along the top of the chair. “Between Gin, the Met, and my father, I don’t have any room for anger.”

He drew back, shoulder blades tightening with a familiar prickle of dread.

“How is he?”

She glanced away, hand curling around the wooden finial. “He entered severe decline two months ago.” Her jaw worked silently as her gaze swept across the rug. “The doctors say it’s only a matter of time before he loses the ability to communicate altogether.”

A tense beat.

“Once that happens, it'll be a countdown to the end.”

Harry stepped forward, reaching out a hand. “Hermione, I’m so sorry–”

“I can’t talk about it. Not right now.” She drew back, crossing her arms tightly over front. “If I talk about it I’ll think about it and then I’ll–”

She shook her head, eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “I need to stay focused.”

He lowered his arm, nodding slowly. “I understand. But when you’re ready to talk, I’m here.”

She inhaled deeply, eyes lifting. “And when you’re ready to tell me what really happened in California, I’m here.”

His heart skipped, painfully.

He nodded once more, loving and cursing her astute observational skills in equal measure. He’d never been able to keep secrets from her. From the moment they first met as children she always had a way of peering all the way through him, down to his very core, effortlessly stripping away layers of concealment with painstaking efficiency. He didn’t know why he bothered trying to hide things from her.

But then again, some truths were better left to the dark recesses of his soul, far away from her radiant light. He couldn’t taint her. Couldn’t endanger her...

She relieved him from the suffocating pressure, gesturing to the couch against the wall. He sidestepped an elephant statue and followed on stiff knees, watching as she sat gingerly on the left cushion, tucking her feet underneath her skirt-clad thighs and placing a decorative pillow on her lap.

“What time did your train arrive?”

He sat beside her, causing her slight weight to bounce.

“Actually…” He rubbed the back of his neck, watching the sky turn a burnt gold through the pane. “I got home yesterday.”

She stiffened. “Oh.”

He glanced sideways, forearms bracing his thighs. “I should have come sooner. I meant to, but I… I wasn’t–”

“It’s alright, Harry.”

He released a strained breath. “Please stop saying that.”

She fidgeted with the tassels hanging off the edge of the pillow. Her feline companion watched the strings sway side to side from his spot on the rug, pupils expanding, tail twitching.

“I don’t know what else to say.”

He leaned back, eyes glinting like the gemstones they so embodied. “Tell me I’m an asshole. A selfish prick.” He wet his lips, hands clenching over his knees. “Tell me you hate me.”

Her eyes snapped up, flashing with just as much vibrancy. "I'll never be able to hate you, Harry Potter. No matter what you say or do, I'll always love you."

Pain lanced through his center, a driving ache that skewered him straight through to his shoulder, the scar tissue burning with a familiar flame.

Her eyes were unwavering. “You were in a dark place. You did what you thought was best.” She lifted her chin. “I can’t judge you for that. I won’t.”

He released a slow breath. “I should have called.”

She nodded. “Yes, you should have. But I know you have your reasons for staying silent. And I know one day you’ll tell me what they were.”

He tore his gaze away, scrubbing a hand over his face, skin feverish, ready to split at the seams and unleash the raging hurricane confined within his heart. “There is something I need to tell you.”

She tilted her head, expression filled with gentle patience.

He swallowed thickly. “Or rather, show you.”

She blinked, watching closely as he reached into his vest, lifting the flap of his inner pocket.

“Ron and I came across this last night, I was hoping you could tell us what the hell it is.”

He carefully extracted the narrow cylinder, holding it out in his palm, shoulders tensing as she reared back, nearly toppling to the floor.

Only to surge forward in the next beat, tossing the pillow carelessly across the room, her cat leaping free of its trajectory at the last moment.

“Where did you get that?”

“Central Park.”

Her eyes flickered up, wide, mouth wider yet. “ _What_? How?”

“It’s a long stor–”

“Put it on the couch!”

She jumped to her feet as though the cushion was spring-loaded, staggering across the rug. Harry blinked, trying to formulate a response.

“Put it down, Harry! The oils from your skin cause a chemical reaction that erodes the surface!”

She rushed to her desk, pulling open the bottom drawer, the smell of cedar releasing into the air. Harry carefully set the item on the cushion, movements slow and methodical as though handling a stick of dynamite.

“So, it’s an antique?”

She shook her head. “It’s a priceless artifact.” He watched as she pulled white gloves over her hands. “From a new collection I’m overseeing at the Met.” She started across the room once more, focusing upon the cylinder. “It was missing in the shipment.”

She held her breath, leaning down and picking it up with gentle fingers, balancing it in both palms as though it were made of crystal.

“I can’t believe you found it. What are the chances?” She inhaled deeply, crossing back to her desk. “Thank god. I have to call Malfoy, let him know–”

“You can't.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “What?”

He pushed to his feet. “Not yet anyway. That’s the only lead we have on Gin.”

She sat the object atop a square of velvet laid across the veneer. “What are you talking about, Harry?”

“We visited the crime scene at the Park–”

“You _what_?”

He raised a staying hand, stepping forward. “Ron thought it may lead to information on Gin. But before we could investigate we got attacked.”

She paled, pressing against the edge of the table. “Are you alright?”

“We’re fine. But the man who attacked us had this on him.”

He nodded to the object.

She blinked, gazing down at it. “He must have robbed the delivery truck. Or maybe the shipping vessel.” She tapped a gloved finger along her chin, and then her eyes tracked up, latching onto him. “I don’t see how it relates to Ginny.”

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, the storm gaining speed with every passing beat. “Trust me on this, Mione. This guy was more than a common thief.”

Her gaze turned speculative. “I agree, common thieves don’t target artifacts. He obviously works for a specialized buyer, maybe even an underground procurement ring.” She tilted her head, expression beautifully innocent. “Have the police questioned him yet? If they can track his employer then maybe–”

And then the gleam in her eyes faded, realization taking root and darkening her countenance as she studied his guarded expression.

“Harry.” She arched a brow, crossing her arms. “What happened?”

He drew a hand over his mouth as though to contain the truth.

But she tore it free with a withering glare.

“He’s dead.”

She drew back further, rocking the desk, color fading from her cheeks.

“Did…”

“Yes.”

She lowered her arms, a tremor racing along her limbs.

He raised his hands, palms up, unable to bear the fear in her eyes. "Mione, I promise, it was self-defense."

Several beats passed, until at last she nodded, shoulders easing a fraction. “I believe you. But you have to tell the police. You can’t just leave him for someone to find.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

She blinked, and then her fists clenched. “Harry James Potter, _what_ did you do?”

His long legs ate up the space between them in three strides.

“Mione, please listen.” He gripped her shoulders, the sunlight streaming in from the window blinding in intensity, casting her figure in a golden aura. “I promise you, this wasn’t an ordinary man.”

She shook her head but didn't try to pull free of his grasp. "I don't understand."

He held her gaze firm. “Neither do I. And until I do, I need you to hold onto this.”

Her jaw unhinged, shoulders going rigid beneath his hands. “Are you insane? I have to return it to the museum immediately!”

He sighed, breath hissing across her face and blowing loose curls back, thoughts caught in a vicious cyclone of bad decisions and worse outcomes. Until at last, he settled on the lesser of the evils laid out before him.

“Alright. Can you sneak it back in?”

Sadly, she didn’t seem to share his sentiment, rearing back with a textbook-perfect look of scandal.

“Of course not! I have to make a report! A major felony has occurred, choosing to ignore it makes me an accomplice!”

He rubbed his throbbing temples in a vain attempt to keep his brain situated inside his splitting skull. “Can you at least wait until morning to make the report?”

A beat.

He gazed up, hopeful.

She regarded him carefully, as though trying to decipher one of her ancient texts.

“Why morning?”

He lowered his arms. “Because by then I’ll hopefully know what the hell we’re dealing with.”

She crossed her arms again, glancing down. “Harry…”

“Please, Mione.” He stepped forward, gently grasping her wrists, a gesture born of comfort, not restraint. “I’m begging you. For me. For Gin.”

“I could lose my job. I could get arrested.”

“I’ll take the fall.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“This is the only thing we have that may lead us to her.”

She closed her eyes, head tipping back. "I still don't see the connection." Her lids peeled open, gaze clouded with chronic exhaustion he recognized well. She stared at the ceiling for several seconds, lips slowly parting. "But if you truly believe it may help find her…"

She set her jaw, lowering her face and pinning him with the full intensity of her steel-tipped gaze. “7 a.m. Then I make the report, no exceptions.”

His answering grin split his face in half. “Thank you, Mione.”

She sighed, leaning into his chest with boneless fatigue. “I’d nearly forgotten what it was like.”

He wrapped his arms around her back. “What what was like?”

She lifted her eyes. “Being around you.” His heart ached at her bittersweet smile. “There’s never a dull moment.”

* * *

Ron made his way down the narrow corridor, mindful of the discarded rubbish packed along the stained and warped baseboards. An infant’s shrill cry echoed from behind a door somewhere ahead.

He reached his destination in the center of the hall, knocking loudly on the barrier as a woman's frantic scream joined the fold, followed by a man's enraged snarl. He cringed, glancing over his shoulder, wondering which apartment it was coming from when a faint shuffling drew his attention forward.

_“Who is it?”_

He wet his lips, shifting uncomfortably as the arguing at his back reached new heights.

“It’s me.”

_“We don’t know any Me!”_

_“Parvati!”_

The sound of sliding deadbolts followed, and then the paint-chipped door gave way, opening just a fraction, stopped by the rusted chain.

Brown eyes peered through, widening.

“Ron? What are you–” Her lips remained softly parted as she roamed his figure. “Are you alright?”

He raked a hand through his disheveled hair. “I’m sorry, I should have called but…”

The disembodied woman screamed anew, the baby crying louder. He swallowed, edging closer, desperate to evade the chaos.

“Is this a bad time?”

_“Yes!”_

She scowled over her shoulder. “Parv! Cool off in your room!”

A scathing groan followed, chased by the slamming of a door. The blonde shook her head, facing the hallway once more.

“Hold on.”

She shut the door, sliding the chain free, and then opened it wide. He sagged with relief, stepping through. She continued to clutch the edge of the frame, eyeing him carefully. “What happened?”

He stopped just before her, releasing a sharp breath. “We might have a lead. On Gin.”

She tilted her head, golden hair cascading over her bare shoulder. The tie at her waist hung loose, the silk robe parting to reveal the scant lacy teddy beneath.

“That’s wonderful.”

His eyes flickered around the barren apartment.

"Can…" He met her eyes, pulse thrumming. "Do you have any more clients tonight?"

She shook her head, pulling her sleeve over her shoulder and tying the sash. “No.”

He wet his lips. “Could I…”

She nodded, pushing the door closed and placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Come here.”

He melted into her embrace, pressing his face into her hair and closing his eyes as he drew her forward.

“Thanks, Lav.”

* * *

Harry dragged his feet over the threshold of Grimmauld, chest tight as he gazed around the dark interior, the sun rapidly fading at his back.

He kicked the door shut with his boot, pressing a hand against his shoulder blade. He took two more steps and was caught by Walburga’s accusing stare from above.

Hermione’s voice still lingered in his mind, as did her face, the pain and hopelessness in her eyes as they discussed Ginny. Ron’s stricken expression invaded next, followed by the withered corpse they delivered to Nott.

He swallowed heavily, holding the Black Matriarch’s sinister scowl for another sweltering beat before dropping his arm and galloping up the steps two at a time.

He stood on the landing, holding her gaze at eye level, heartbeat echoing in the back of his throat as he gripped the gilded frame and wrenched it from the wall. It didn’t want to give way at first, putting up a decidedly impressive fight, but his superior strength ripped the nails and peeled the faded paper in a long strip.

He flashed the image a triumphant smirk before turning the portrait around and leaning it against the wood paneling, free from her imposing scorn at last.

And then a floorboard creaked in the adjoining hallway.

He turned on his heel, heart skipping.

The corridor was saturated in darkness, the shadows so opaque they formed a living, undulating mass that shifted along the walls, spreading out like ink, filling the air with a black cloud.

His ears filled with a low electric hum, the crackle of static quick to follow, his stomach twisting with the unsettling certainty of watchful eyes upon him.

His fists clenched.

“Hello?”

He shook his head at his own stupidity.

Suddenly, a draft stole past, cold and bitter, laced with a familiar scent. His chest cracked cleanly down the center.

“Sirius?”

The darkness exploded to life, surging outward in a powerful rush, barrelling towards him. He staggered back, eyes wide and voice frozen, catching himself against a side table, desperately reaching for the shadeless lamp resting atop.

He switched it on, holding the light like a baseball bat, feet braced for combat.

But the halogen glow revealed an empty corridor, the only movement a gentle swaying of cobwebs, their shadows dancing along the ceiling.

He shook his head, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

The lamp flickered.

He blinked, holding it before his gaze, the bulb humming loudly as the light surged, blinding.

He raised a shielding hand to his eyes, gasping as the bulb exploded, glass raining across his shirt and pants, scattering across the wood floor, darkness wrapping him in its cold embrace.

He sighed, slamming the destroyed lamp on the table.

“I fucking hate this place.”

* * *

Hermione closed her father’s bedroom door with a soft click, taking comfort in the sound of his rhythmic breathing as sleep stole him away at long last. She crept carefully down the hall, mindful of creaking floorboards, and slipped into her office.

Crookshanks leaped from the back of the couch and ran to her side, meowing loudly. She smiled, leaning over and picking him up, cradling him to her chest and planting a dramatic kiss to his smushed face, laughing as he twisted in her grip, desperate for freedom.

She set him back down and made her way to the desk, staring at the jar with a heavy heart, stones settling to the pit of her stomach.

“Malfoy will be calling any minute.” She interlaced her fingers tightly. “What do I tell him, Crooks?”

His response was to hike his back leg into the air, licking along the base of his tail.

She drew closer to the table, pulse throbbing with every step. The air pressure changed, turning dense and heavy in her lungs.

“Why would they take only one jar?” She tilted her head, bracing the back of the chair. “And why this one? Surely Amenemhat’s heart is more valuable to collectors.”

She wet her lips.

“Unless…”

She pulled the chair out and quickly sank down.

_Unless there’s something of greater value inside._

It wouldn’t be the first time valuables were stashed in unusual places as a means of subverting grave robbers.

She pulled her cotton gloves back into place and pulled open the middle drawer, grabbing up her leather roll. She pulled the tie free and opened the case, revealing a gleaming row of tools.

She clicked the desk lamp on and bent the neck forward, illuminating her workspace, jar at the center. And then she held her breath, reaching forward and carefully taking the item in hand.

She rotated it slowly, studying the markings, cringing at the barely visible oil residue from human skin. Her teeth pinned her bottom lip as she tested the lid.

Sealed tight, as anticipated.

She just hoped it hadn’t been glued in place by whoever stole it. Artifact thieves rarely knew how to handle the treasures they procured, greatly devaluing the delicate valuables before they even reached the black market.

She began to read the religious spells engraved along the smooth clay, noting the royal seal. The main text was a prayer to reunite the spirit with its body in the afterlife.

Quite standard.

At a glance, nothing seemed terribly unusual…

Except for the jar’s shape. Long and narrow instead of short and round.

A curious anomaly.

And perhaps what made it so valuable...

She flipped it over, studying the flat base.

And blinked.

There was a faint stamp, the hieroglyph faded, barely discernible in the light. She extracted her magnifying spectacles from the top drawer and slipped them into place, holding the jar closer, the symbol finally revealing itself to her studious gaze.

Sekhmet.

She leaned back, removing the glasses.

Now _this_ was highly unusual.

She pictured the gleaming sarcophagus in her mind. How strange that it bore a goddess's likeness instead of a standard death mask. A high honor to be certain, but one typically reserved for Pharaohs alone, not their royal consorts.

She bit her lip, considering.

_If only I could ask Papa…_

He would have known. He always knew everything.

She swallowed heavily, closing her eyes and shaking the wayward thought aside before it crippled her.

_I’ll ask the British Museum. They’ve had the collection for years now, surely they’ll have some insight._

There was nothing more frustrating to Hermione than having to rely on someone else for answers. Especially in the field of her life's passion. But her days of field research and excavation were long behind her. She was confined to New York now, her only interaction with the Ancient world would be through Museums and collectors.

She would learn to make do. There was no other choice.

She brought her focus back to the jar, squaring her shoulders. Not reporting the theft right away was madness, plain and simple. A temporary loss of sanity only Harry was able to bring out in her. But she’d already committed to seeing the Big Bad Decision through...

So what was one more, lesser crime?

She wanted to open the jar.

No.

She _needed_ to open it.

She had to look inside for herself. Perhaps then she could figure out what set this item apart from all the others, why it bore a warrior goddess seal. The British Museum would have made note of anything unusual within...

_But perhaps they missed something._

She bit her lip once more, eyes gleaming as the sun slowly set over the city beyond her window.

_Someone wants this jar. Only this jar._

_And I need to know why._

The simple, undeniable truth animated her limbs and set her into motion. She reached into her drawer and extracted a surgical mask, looping the straps behind her ears and covering her airway.

There was minimal damage to the exterior, which was fortunate given the chronic mishandling over the last twenty-four hours. She didn’t want to introduce any moisture to the interior, calcite was highly reactive and would rapidly promote mold and degradation.

So she lifted a metal pick from the roll, its tip narrow and sharp, ideal for scraping away calcium deposits. She traced the point along the seam of the lid, wetting her lips behind the mask, eyes narrowed with concentration. Her breathing turned shallow as she became utterly absorbed in her task, slowly working the narrow tip along the groove.

Crookshanks padded closer, laying at her feet and commencing with a bath. The sound of his grooming faded to the background of her mind. She tilted her head, hair cascading down the chair, sweat collecting at her temples.

She finally set the tool aside and reached for a vial from the drawer.

White spirit. A quickly evaporating solvent.

She drew in a slow breath and unscrewed the cap, motions slow and steady as she extracted the dropper and carefully administered a line of pungent chemicals along the groove she’d created with her pick.

She inhaled sharply and held, lungs burning with the pressure as she capped the spirit and set it aside, picking up the jar and working quickly. She twisted the lid back and forth, heart skipping as it started to slowly give way.

And suddenly, as often happened when she became lost to her work, her father’s soothing voice filled her mind, clear and steady.

_“Patience is a virtue, my darling.”_

Her eyes gleamed with fast approaching victory.

_"Preserving history is just as time-consuming as making it."_

She gasped as the cylindrical lid finally gave way beneath her touch, pulling free entirely and revealing the hollow interior.

And the tight roll of parchment tucked within.

Her pulse thrummed manically as she carefully gripped the edge of the papyrus and tugged. It slipped out without resistance, revealing a pile of ashes at the base. She rolled the cylinder in her hand, watching the dusty debris tumble around the sides.

No gleam of metal or jewels revealed itself to the light.

She set the base next to the lid and extracted tweezers from her case, gently clasping the edge of the scroll and rolling it open. The parchment was extremely delicate, barely the size of her palm.

And covered in writing.

She began to skim the text, expecting another prayer. But this was something else entirely…

And written in hieratic instead of hieroglyphs.

_It just keeps getting more and more interesting._

She began to decipher the symbols in her mind, translating them as she went, pulse swelling as she caught sight of a familiar symbol.

_We return Sekhmet’s sacred servant to the sand and sky._

_May she live forever in the children and moon._

Hermione shook her head.

No, that wasn’t right. The last symbol was smudged, but there were three horizontal lines at the base of the crescent, not two, and the structure of the consonants indicated a descriptor, not a separate noun.

_May she live forever in the **children of night**._

She wet her lips, satisfied, and leaned closer, hot breath smothered by the mask.

_When the Nile runs red, we offer blood sacrifice._

_To guide the great Mother home._

_And protect us from the wrath of Ra._

Her hands trembled. She wondered if she was the first one to discover this parchment. The first to decipher the text since it was first written millennia prior.

The mere thought made her heart soar, vision tunneling.

She blinked, clearing her eyes of the sudden fog and carefully releasing the papyrus, allowing it to curl back in on itself.

_What does it mean?_

She pulled the mask away and set it aside, leaning back in the chair, watching the sun sink beneath the horizon at last.

It seemed neither prayer nor spell…

_We offer blood sacrifice._

Her brow furrowed.

There must have been another interpretation. Egyptians never practiced human sacrifice to their gods, and retainer sacrifice ended after the First Dynasty.

She held her gaze in the reflection of the pane, rapidly rifling through her mental stores for a possible explanation–

Crookshanks mewled, breaking her focus. Before she could glance in his direction he hopped onto the surface of the desk, tail swishing and colliding with the base of the jar, knocking it on its side.

“No!”

She surged forward, reaching for him, eyes wide and transfixed with horror as a thin trail of ashes spilled across the glossy veneer. He panicked, leaping away before she could grab him, his back paw kicking at the pile and sending the ashes into the air.

She gasped.

And inhaled the cloud.

Fire tore through her throat.

She reared back, coughing violently into her gloved fist, throat seared with acid, the pain overwhelming.

She pushed back with her feet, sliding the chair away from the desk, eyes and nose streaming as she doubled over in a fit, coughing uncontrollably, unable to clear her airway. The debris seemed to stick to the sides of her esophagus, swelling the tissues, slowly choking her.

She became lightheaded.

Crookshanks keened anxiously as she toppled to the floor in a convulsing heap, too breathless to cough, sputtering wordlessly as she suffocated, face a feverish red, eyes bloodshot.

Her vision rapidly dimmed, the lights around her seeming to fade.

And then flicker.

A distant static filled her head, like an old radio with the volume turned low, caught between channels. Broken voices followed, strange and foreign to her ears, the whispers overlapping, filling her mind and driving out the sound of her roaring heartbeat.

The lamp on her desk brightened, filling the room with a surge of intense light. Car horns blared to life outside, someone screamed–

And then the world faded to black.

* * *

The sun dipped beneath the horizon at long last, giving way to the waxing moon. The impressive skyline stood tall and proud, illuminated by a dark halo of smoke as factories pumped their toxins into the air.

He tilted his head, gazing at the bustling streets situated eight hundred feet below. The penthouse offered unparalleled views of the city. And at this particular moment, his eyes lingered on the dark stretch of swaying canopy and glittering water comprising Central Park.

The steady click of shoes across marble sounded at his back. A moment later a familiar reflection appeared in the pane beside his own.

The new entrant stopped several yards away, bowing his head with deference.

“Sir.”

He lifted his chin, hands clasped calmly behind his back. “Go ahead.”

The man took a tentative step forward, eyes gleaming. “Avery still hasn't returned.”

He didn’t react to the news, continuing to gaze upon the city without expression. “That’s because he’s dead.”

His second-in-command went rigid, hands clenching as he swayed in place. “When?”

“The bond severed early this morning.”

“Sir, if you’d told me–”

“It would make no difference.” He tilted his head, eyes flashing as he caught sight of a couple walking hand in hand along the park’s outer gate.

A heavy beat.

His General stepped closer.

“Do you think it was her?”

He released the couple from his sights, glittering eyes flickering southward, watching a homeless man pushed a trolley along the sidewalk.

“I did.” A group of darkly clad youths passed by in the opposite direction, taunting the vagrant with boisterous merriment. “But if she had it we would know by now.”

“What are we–”

He held up a silencing hand, concentration shifting as a strange kinetic energy buzzed along his skin.

The lamp at his back flickered.

And then the lights across the entire city followed suit.

The streets erupted into chaos as traffic lights flashed and headlights died. Pedestrians stopped in their tracks, residents opened their windows to gaze upon neighboring buildings as the bizarre light show took hold of New York.

His shoulders tightened, transfixed by the anomaly, tasting it on the air, something satisfyingly sweet saturating the back of his tongue.

And then a shockwave of energy blasted across the land, lights surging bright, blinding against his nocturnal vision. The impact of the wave arched his spine. His General staggered with the force of it, nearly losing his footing.

He continued to gaze through the panoramic windows. None of the humans seemed to feel the second surge. His jaw ticked, senses rapidly sharpening.

The man at his back straightened, gripping the velvet settee for balance. “What the hell was that?”

He wet his lips, eyes turning molten at the core as he watched the ensuing chaos overtake the city.

"I don't know." His fangs lengthened, razor-sharp edges glinting in the moonlight. "But I intend to find out."


	3. City of Gold

_“For I see that then I was still all in a state of innocence, but that innocence, once lost, is lost forever.”_  
~ Susan Hill, The Woman in Black  
.   .   .

Her heart pounded in time to the mattocks driving against the hard-packed earth, rock splitting at the center and giving way to damp sand beneath. The workers lined the perimeter of the site, steadily expanding the circumference with each swing of their ax.

She narrowed her eyes, adjusting her goggles, condensation heavy along the seal, sweat dripping down her nape. The sun scorched above, bright and insistent, casting her long shadow across the sand.

Her pulse swelled as her spade breached a new layer of earth, the consistency changing beneath her gloves. She set the tool aside and began sweeping mounds of debris away with her palms, holding her breath, sensing something profound within reach–

Her fingertips struck a rigid surface, revealing the pale outline of ceramic buried in the sediment. She smiled with child-like anticipation, ripping her gloves off and digging the item free with her bare hands, nail-beds caked red with sand.

At last her treasure broke free from the ground, wholly intact and without blemish. The hieroglyphs carved along the shell gleamed brightly in the midday sun, as though saturated in ink. She grasped her hard-won prize tightly in her palm, skin burning upon contact with its heated surface as she sat back on her heels, panting with exhaustion.

“Papa!”

She pulled her goggles away, dropping them to the sand and wiping the sweat from her face with the back of a grainy forearm.

“Papa!”

She glanced to the side, where she instinctively sensed his presence.

He kneeled in the sand, fully immersed in his own dig, but immediately set his tools aside at her excited beckoning, turning his head.

Her mouth ran dry.

He appeared so young. So handsome. So much like the photos in the albums…

She blinked, a distant whisper echoing through the halls of her mind, too faint to discern, too delicate to grasp. And then he smiled, and her thoughts scattered like moths. His teeth gleamed white in the sunlight, eyes glittering just as brightly. “What it is, darling?”

She wet her lips, the skin parched and chapped. “I found something!”

His grin widened, creases appearing along the corners of his mouth and eyes. “Magnificent! Let me see!”

She wasted no time pushing to her feet, knocking sand from the knees of her trousers, running as fast her boots would allow, white blouse billowing in the heavy wind and braid slapping heavy against her back with every step. She sank to his side a moment later, the ground softer, pulling her in. She uncurled her palm, extending her find proudly.

He laughed shortly. “My goodness! What a remarkable discovery!”

She beamed, bouncing in place as he tilted his head, examining the mysterious cylinder more closely.

“Do you know what this is, Hermione?”

She nodded with a school girl’s eagerness. “It’s a canopic jar.”

“Very good, my darling. And do you know what it contains?”

She nodded once more, head caught on a swivel. “A heart.”

“Excellent!” His voice held a vibrant buoyancy that made her pulse skip. His spine straightened, movements becoming more animated as he pulled his sand-caked gloves free one finger at a time.

“But it doesn’t contain just any heart.” His hazel gaze flickered up, latching onto hers with such intensity she felt her muscles lock in place. “ _This_ is the heart of our Queen.”

She blinked, fingers tensing around the cylinder. “Our Queen?”

His eyes flashed. “Yes.”

She squinted as the sun seemed to pulse above, brightening to a blinding degree, a powerful surge of heat quick to follow, filling her lungs with a gust of steam.

He leaned in, voice low, surrounding her from all sides. “Our most Sacred Ruler. The Great Mother. The Beloved Creator of our people.”

She leaned away, bracing the sand at her back as she attempted to scoot away, succeeding only in sinking deeper.

“Papa…”

“Don’t be afraid, Hermione.”

His voice was lower yet, unfamiliar to her ears. She squinted, the sun over saturating everything, a white-wash of radiation. But she sensed his approach just the same, felt the air shift and the sand move as he leaned closer.

“You never have to be afraid again.” A sweltering beat. “She’s been waiting for you.”

Tears spilled from her eyes, evaporating beneath the scorching heat, skin raw, blood boiling.

“You aren’t my father.”

He rose to his full height with graceful swiftness, a dark stretch towering above her, head blocking the sun and giving her a blessed reprieve from its blinding rays. But the juxtaposition cast his features in total darkness, his outline a shadowy mass that seemed to swell in size with every frantic breath she took.

“Of course I am, darling.”

She blinked rapidly, desperately trying to make out his face, at last catching the gleam of two silver eyes, as though they were coated in liquid metal. She choked on a scream, scurrying back, the sand sucking her down with every desperate push.

She gazed around in sheer desperation, opening her mouth to call for help, but the surrounding workers faded into the horizon like a shimmering mirage, their axes falling forgotten to the sand. Terror flooded her veins, rendered her mute and dizzy. She gazed hopelessly at the endless stretch of desert encompassing her from all sides.

“This is your kingdom, Hermione.”

Her head snapped forward, eyes captured by his silver gaze, ears ringing as he smiled once more, revealing a pair of jagged, gleaming fangs.

“Welcome home.”

And then he descended upon her.

She screamed at last, throwing her arms overhead and twisting away. The sand gave out beneath her, sucking her down into an endless red hot abyss.

She opened her eyes.

And gasped for air, curling into herself as she coughed into her gloved hand, eyes tearing. The rug was rough and scratchy beneath her cheek, the rest of her surroundings hazy.

Except for the orange face situated directly before her, watching her with unblinking eyes.

She wheezed once more, slowly unfolding her coiled limbs as oxygen flooded her lungs in a satisfying rush, her airway free at last. She tried to swallow but the flesh felt swollen and raw. She rolled over slowly, dizzy, and got her hands and knees beneath her, taking a long, steadying breath before slowly pushing to her feet.

She swayed, gripping the back of her chair for balance, vision swimming for a terrifying moment. A soft mewl drew her gaze downward. Crookshanks padded closer, eyes wide and full of apology, tail sticking straight in the air with obvious uncertainty.

“It isn’t your fault.” Her voice was weak. She cringed at the sting of pain it induced, wiping her cheeks dry with gloved fingertips. “I’m an idiot for opening it in the house.”

She wet her lips, casting her gaze forward. The ashes remained spread across the wood, unassuming in their innocence. Her jaw clenched as she pondered what the hell she ingested. Ancient Egyptians were known for setting clever booby traps to both maim and deter grave robbers, though mixing something into the contents of the jar would be a desecration of the heart itself…

It didn’t make sense.

_Unless the ashes underwent some sort of composition change over time? Or perhaps the white spirit caused a…_

She shook her head, vision swimming anew, a distant buzzing taking up root in the back of her mind, insistent and grating.

_Did I ingest poison?_

She breathed deeply through her nose, holding it in her lungs until they burned with the same heat as her throat. She couldn’t go to the emergency clinic, couldn’t leave her father by himself for any stretch of time. If he awoke and wandered out of his room, into the kitchen, or worse yet, into the street…

She swallowed heavily, closing her eyes, trying to calm her racing heart and frazzled nerves.

_I’m sure I’m fine. If it was a deadly toxin I’d be dead._

Right?

She pried her lids apart, gazing warily through the window, pulse skipping at the sight of pale daylight bleeding across the sky, dawn rapidly approaching. She glanced to the clock, blinking as the hands sat frozen in place.

She pushed away from the chair, staggering barefoot across the room in her work attire, the overwhelming need to see her father suffusing her limbs with enough coordination to maneuver down the narrow hall without plummeting head first to the wood.

She paused outside his door, clutching the knob with both hands, the brass rattling beneath her trembling grip. She opened the barrier slowly, heart in her throat, an inexplicable terror set into the very marrow of her bones, as though he were somehow connected to the chaos of the office.

The indigo sky filled his room with enough light to discern his outline beneath the covers, the steady rumble of his breathing permeating the rapid beating of her heart, until her pulse slowed to match the rhythm, vision clearing of the dense fog she hadn’t realized had formed. She stood in the doorway for another few minutes, content to watch him sleep, a guilty part of her hoping he would sense the watchful gaze upon him and awaken, see the unrest in her eyes and tightness in her shoulders and beckon her inside like he used to.

She sagged against the frame.

_What the hell am I going to do?_

Even if he woke, he couldn’t provide her true council. True comfort. Not anymore.

The father she once knew was alive only in memory, just like her mother. But this loss ran deeper, carved a bloodier rivet in her heart. For unlike her mother’s quick and painless demise, her father died little by little each and every day, right before her eyes. And there was nothing she could do to stop it. Nothing to slow it. Nothing to escape it.

She closed her eyes and stepped into the hall, softly closing his door and pressing a trembling hand to the wood, feeling so much worse than before she opened it.

Movement drew her notice. Crookshanks sat just beside her, amber eyes gleaming as he curled his tail around his legs. She held his gaze, pushing away from the door.

_You’re an adult, Hermione. You have to learn to handle problems on your own._

She dropped her arm, hands curling tight as she lifted her chin and gazed down the endless stretch of hall to the glow of her office.

This was one mystery she would be forced to solve herself.

And time was running out.

* * *

Harry broke through the black swell of trees into the clearing, moonlight illuminating his path, alighting off the wet leaves and grass, casting the slick ground into a churning sea of darkness.

He lost his footing, legs skidding out from beneath his frame, tailbone colliding against the earth with a bone-jolting crunch. But his shout of pain was swallowed by the malevolent call of a wolf howl echoing powerfully through the trees.

He pushed to his feet with a groan, teeth grit and hands caked with mud. He charged headlong through the flat stretch of woods until a familiar structure appeared just ahead, visible through the black, twisted trunks, sitting in the center of the wilderness as though it was the original inhabitant of the terrain, the forest springing forth in reverence to its dark master.

Another howl tore through the night and ripped through his mind, clearing away his thoughts and giving rise to pure base instinct. The need to survive.

The full moon watched his mad dash across the dead leaves to the front porch, the wood groaning beneath his weight, the house growling in warning. The gleaming front door swung open before his trembling hands even made contact with the wood, revealing a tangible darkness that watched him with steady, glittering eyes.

He ran headlong inside, more terrified of the predator at his back, and Grimmauld eagerly swallowed him whole, the door slamming shut with the same definite finality. He sagged against the barrier, doubled over and fighting to catch his breath, the shadowed entry slowly taking shape in his peripheral.

But the outline of sheet-draped furniture dissipated into smoke as heavy footfalls sounded outside, leaves crunching and twigs snapping as their owner made a slow, methodical approach from the treeline.

“Potter.”

He closed his eyes, adrenaline replacing every ounce of blood in his body with a dizzying surge.

Boots tread heavily along the rickety steps, the air swelling, snapping, alive with electricity.

“You can run.”

The back of his shoulder throbbed. His palms pressed flat to the warped wood at his back.

“But you can’t hide.”

Footsteps paced along the sunken porch, a figure passing the boarded windows, breaking up the beams of moonlight filtering through.

“I’m coming.”

And then the footsteps stopped just outside the door, the next words spoken in a throaty whisper, ghosting through the barrier and burning a scorching trail along Harry’s nape.

“I’m almost here.”

The knob began to turn.

Harry bolted forward, blinded by raw, overwhelming terror, scrambling up the main staircase on his hands and feet. Walburga watched from her perch above, eyes glowing in the darkness, lips curled in a sinister grin.

And then the wood splinter beneath his weight, the stairs breaking at the center and sucking him down into an endless void of darkness.

Harry sprang forward with a shout, unbalancing his weight from the narrow sofa and toppling to the ground in a fit of twisting limbs and blankets.

He groaned, closing his eyes and rubbing his bruised shin, kicking the ottoman out of the way with force. He rolled to his back, staring at the cobweb-strewn ceiling and wondering if he’d ever be afforded a restful night’s sleep in this mausoleum.

He took a steadying breath and rolled to a seated position, reaching for the crystal decanter sitting at the head of the couch, thankfully spared from his dramatic tumble. But as he tipped the bottle to his lips he realized with a long and mournful sigh that it was empty. He ground his teeth and slammed the container to the ground, the impact radiating through his arm and shoulder as he lifted his other wrist to check the time.

He blinked, tilting the glinting face in every direction before finally pressing the watch to his ear.

Stopped.

His hand dropped to his lap, head falling back with a soft thud against the couch, a dust cloud bursting free from the cushion and dancing in the gentle glow of dawn.

“I _really_ fucking hate this place.”

* * *

Ron blinked slowly, sunlight blinding against the thick haze of his vision as he yawned, a lion's roar, stretching his arms overhead and pressing his palms flat to the cracked drywall. He settled a moment later, scratching his bare chest and rolling to his side, reaching out.

His hand met empty mattress.

His gaze flickered up, catching sight of her immediately, standing beside the window, arms crossed and silk robe wrapping her tight, sunlight illuminating her lithe silhouette through the thin fabric.

He drew a hand over his face, wiping away the last remnants of sleep.

“Lav?”

She didn’t react. Didn’t move. Just continued to stare ahead, offering him her back and the honeyed river of her hair.

“You okay?”

She tilted her head at last, drawing in a slow breath. “I had a bad dream.”

He yawned again, this time able to capture it with the back of his hand.

“Oh?”

She shifted, a floorboard creaking beneath her slight weight. “It’s still with me. Lingering in the air. It has a bitterness I can almost taste and smell."

He scratched the side of his head, hair a rumpled mess. “I think that’s the burnt coffee, babe.”

Her arms dropped. And then she gazed over her shoulder, eyes fixing to a spot on the wall just past his head. “It’s eight.”

He blinked, pushing up. “Christ. I overslept.” He drew the sheets around his nudity, gazing around the barren floor. “Let me get my wallet.” And then his brows creased. “Where the hell are my clothes?”

“On the chair. I folded them.”

He followed her gaze. “Oh. Thanks.”

He threw aside the bedding and started across the room, pausing as she spoke.

“Don’t worry.”

He stopped before the chair, reaching for his trousers and glancing back. “What?”

She faced the window once more. “Last night was free.”

He shook the garment open, studying her reflection in the foggy pane. “You don’t have to–”

“I’m glad you found a lead on Ginny.” The declaration rendered him mute. “I hope you find her.”

He wet his lips, stepping into his pants, jerking them up with stilted movements, something heavy and sour hanging in the air, indiscernible yet unavoidable.

“Me, too.”

He started towards her, movements slow and tentative, the sun reflecting brightly off the dusty surface of the floor and furniture.

“Lav, are you alright, babe?”

She nodded, grabbing her arms and drawing her shoulders in. “Yes.” He started to reach for her but she pulled away before his fingertips made contact. “It’s getting late. I’m sure you have a lot to do today.”

His hand curled in the empty air, dropping to his side.

“Yeah.” He swallowed. “I guess I do.”

He made his way back to the chair and finished getting dressed, the room silent but for his movements. At last he started for the door, vest and tie in hand, only to pause before the barrier, heart in his throat.

“Er…” He rubbed the back of his neck, daring to look at her. “Can I see you tonight?”

She shook her head, the waves in her hair catching the light and shimmering magnificently. “I have an appointment.”

His jaw set, eyes darting away as a sudden heat tore through his chest. “What about after?”

“It’s a new client. I don’t know how long it will run.”

He nodded, clutching the fabric in his hand until the veins stood out in stark relief from his pale skin.

“Alright. Well. I’ll see you later then.”

She glanced at him once more, eyes smoky and vacant.

“Good luck, Ron.”

The fire spread, setting his blood to boil.

“Thanks.”

He left the bedroom, closing the door with more force than necessary and cutting a quick path down the hall, shoulders tight as he emerged into the kitchenette, eyes focused on the door ahead.

The smell of burnt coffee grew thicker, a toxic cloud he couldn’t escape. And then faint movement at the counter caught his eye. His spine straightened.

“Morning, Patil.”

She continued to study the newspaper laid out before her, steaming mug held aloft. "You're looking more dumbfounded than usual, Weasley. Spend all night searching for that elusive clitoris again?” The corner of her lips curved into a wry grin as she turned the page and lifted a knee, propping her foot on the stool. “Perhaps Lav can draw you a map. I doubt you’d be able to read the instructions.”

He stopped in the middle of the room, rounding on her. “Why do you hate me, Patil?”

She glanced up with an innocent look of confusion. Steam poured from his mouth and ears, the inferno reaching a tipping point at last.

“Seriously. I’ve never been anything but polite to you, I help Lav whenever I can and–”

She scoffed loudly, dismissing him with a flick of her wrist. He stepped closer, fists clenched.

“ _What’s_ your problem?”

Her dark eyes darted up, flashing dangerously. “You just answered your own question, Weasley.” She slammed the mug atop the chipped tiles, pushing the newspaper aside. “You think you’re somehow different from the others. Better.” She braced her hands along the lip of the table, talons digging in. “You think you’re the best goddamn thing to ever blow through here.”

Her eyes gleamed feral in the morning sun, teeth sharp and hungry. “I assure you, the world continues to turn when you walk out that door. And Lav gets along _just_ fine without you.”

He watched her carefully, gaze tracking her rigid posture from top to bottom before he awarded her with a deviant grin of his own.

“Carefully, Patil. You almost sound jealous.”

She scowled, pushing back, stool screeching along the linoleum. “Get out of my apartment!”

He backed away slowly, chin raised. “Happily.”

He wasted no time throwing open the door and slamming it in his wake, the frame vibrating with the force. He tugged his vest into place and pulled his tie overhead, wishing he could wrap it around someone else’s neck and pull tight.

* * *

Harry took the steps two at a time, subconsciously carding a hand through his hair before knocking loudly on the door, then cringing, hoping he didn't wake the Professor.

There was a faint shuffling followed by a distant thump before the barrier gave way to the shadowed interior. Hermione’s face appeared in the opening, the darkness casting her face in strange contrast, bags heavy beneath her eyes.

He wet his lips, shifting forward. “I’m sorry I’m late, my alarm didn’t go off this morning and my watch–”

“I know. The clocks here stopped, too.”

He blinked. Her voice was deep, scratchy. He wondered if she was sick. But his surprise overruled his concern.

“Really?”

She nodded, stepping back and opening the door fully, allowing him room to pass. “There was a major power outage last night, took out everything south of the Park.”

He closed the door, glancing sideways at her. "Why would that affect anything mechanical?"

She started down the hallway. “Whatever caused it must have been magnetic.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, still fighting the pull of exhaustion. “I’ll take your word for it. We’ve already established I never made it to class.”

She awarded him with a dazzling smile over her shoulder. “You always made it in time to copy my homework.”

He smirked in turn, following her into the office. “Not every assignment. Just enough to keep my D average.”

She laughed, shaking her head and skillfully stepping over an orange mass laid out in the center of the rug.

The feline watched Harry with steady, distrustful eyes, as though daring him to come any closer. She seemed to notice the silent exchange a moment later, deriving great amusement from the battle of wills.

“Don’t mind him. He just has to warm up to you.”

Harry lifted a dark brow. “I’m sure that will happen.”

He tore his gaze away from the floor and focused on her movements. She turned to face him, crossing her arms.

“Uh-oh.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I know that look.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What look?”

“The I’m-preparing-to-scold-my-idiot-friends look.”

She huffed, a loose curl blowing away from her face. “I don’t scold my idiot friends. I lecture them. There _is_ a difference.”

He fought to contain his smirk, failing miserably. “I think I’d prefer to be scolded.”

She rolled her eyes, the lines of her face softening though her arms remained tightly crossed over front. "Well, I have neither gift to impart on you today. I only meant to tell you… I think we should hold onto the jar.” A weighted beat. “For now.”

He drew back. “What?”

She wet her lips, eyes drifting to the rug. “I thought about it last night and…”

The gears in her mind screeched loudly. Harry tilted his head, studying her vacant expression.

“Mione?”

She blinked, seeming to awake from the sudden stupor, clouds clearing and gaze coming into sharp focus, glinting with diamond points as her shoulders leveled out, feet parting.

He sighed, settling in for what was certain to be an epic lecture.

“If I show up to work with it in hand I’ll have a hell of a time explaining how I got it. I can’t very well tell them I found it on my doorstep this morning, tied up in a ribbon. And if I mention your name you’ll be investigated in conjunction with the robbery, which also means the… _incident_ in the Park may come to light.”

She set her jaw. “If I sneak it back whoever paid to have it stolen will likely strike again. Except this time they’ll be forced to target the Museum itself and I won’t endanger the lives of the staff.”

He shook his head. “They may already be in danger, Mione. Who’s to say these people won’t steal something else?”

“They had the opportunity to take more when they robbed the shipment. But they only wanted the jar.” She held his gaze, voice clear and steady in its certainty. “It’s special. They won’t bother with the rest of the collection.”

His lips pressed thin as she continued, hazel gaze drifting as though the remainder of her speech was contrived on the spot.

“So, we’re better off holding onto it until I can figure out how to return it. Maybe organize an anonymous delivery to the Museum Curator, or even to the police themselves, after I make sure to remove any trace of our handling, of course. Your fingerprints are on record, I can’t risk them drawing any connection to you.”

She swallowed, eyes flickering to the opposite wall as the wheels continued to spin in their depths.

Harry shifted forward, closing the distance between them, the cylinder coming into view on the desk, hidden behind her hip.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

She met his gaze with intense swiftness, halting his approach.

“Do you still think it’s related to Ginny’s disappearance?”

His thoughts stuttered. “I don’t know.” He carded his fingers through his hair, glancing to the sunlight-drenched window. “I’m meeting with someone next who can hopefully shed some more light on the matter.”

“Who?”

“The less I tell you the better.”

Her arms dropped to her sides. “You’ve already brought me in this far.”

His shoulder blades tightened, skin prickling. “I had no idea I was bringing you a stolen artifact or that it was directly connected to your job. I would've never–”

“I know, Harry.” She rubbed her eyes with a low moan.

He watched her closely. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, expression pinched and lids pressed tight. “Just a headache. I’ve had it all morning.”

“Did you get any sleep?”

She sighed deeply, eyes fluttering open. “I’ll be alright.” And then tilted her head, gaze assessing. “Did _you_ get any sleep? You look as bad as I do.”

He glanced away. “I’ve never had a good night’s rest at Grimmauld.”

“Then stay here.”

His chest seized. “You have enough on your plate.”

“You aren’t a burden, Harry. Quite the opposite. I’d love the company–”

“Thank you, Mione. As tempting as it is, I need to get the house in working order if it has any chance of selling.”

She nodded, albeit reluctantly, settling back on her heels. “Just know the offer is open indefinitely.”

His eyes tracked over her face carefully and then flickered to the jar. It seemed larger than it had a moment ago. He shook his head at the ludicrous notion.

“While we’re on the subject…” He wet his lips, bracing himself. “I want to take the jar to Grimmauld.”

She drew back, bumping the chair. “Why?”

He held her gaze intently. "If there are people looking for it, as there undoubtedly are, I don't want you anywhere near it."

She raised a brow. “You left it with me all night.”

“That was when I thought we were unloading it this morning.” He moved directly before her. “I want to hold onto it, Mione. I promise I won’t touch it, you can wrap it up tight as the Orlov Diamond for all I care.”

She released a sharp breath and turned in place, facing the desk. “If you insist. But you _must_ be careful with it, Harry. I have every intention of returning this to the Museum in the same condition it’s in now.”

He nodded, watching her slide her cotton gloves into place.

“Scout’s honor.”

She turned her head, gaze narrowed. “You were kicked out of the Scouts.”

“Semantics.”

She rolled her eyes, sliding open the top drawer. “In that case, there’s something else I want you to take.”

He watched her extract a narrow glass vial, corked with a rubber end. He tilted his head as she held it aloft in the sunlight.

“Dirt?”

She glanced away as he took the vial, turning to the desk and grabbing more materials out of the drawers.

“Sort of.”

He raised a brow, continuing to stare at the dusty contents as she began packaging the cylinder.

“Deliver it to Remus as soon as you can. Ask him to analyze the sample through the lab.”

His heart skipped, once, twice, vision fading at the edges. “You can’t process it at the Met?”

She shook her head, long hair falling forward as she became engrossed in her task. “We use a third party. AMNH has an in-house biology team and much faster turnover.”

He swallowed thickly, throat tight. “I…” He gripped the vial until he was certain it would shatter in his palm. “Are you sure you can’t take it to him?”

Her movements stilled, eyes flickering up as the discomfort radiated off from his form in palpable waves.

“Harry, you’re going to have to tell him you’re home eventually. It might as well be today.”

He ground his teeth, nodding tightly. “You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

The tension snapped like a band. He laughed shortly, shaking his head and tucking the vial into the pocket of his vest.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable with all this?”

She resumed her task, bundling the artifact tight in rolls of fabric and parchment. “No.” She folded the ends over cleanly, fingers moving with deft skill. “But Ginny’s still missing. An artifact was stolen. You and Ron were attacked and a man is dead.” She wet her lips, shoulders set as she rose to her full height. “We’re long past comfortable.”

She turned with the wrapped package in hand. He took it with a nod, holding it with both hands to appease her.

“I’ll talk to you this evening.”

He started to back away, mindful of stepping on her awful cat, not wanting to earn any more of the creature’s scorn, but her voice halted his tracks.

“Harry.”

He met her eye, already sensing the message to come. She’d tell him to be safe, to be careful. But as the shadows surged along the walls and across her tight expression, he felt his own posture shift in anticipation.

“Whatever you do, you _mustn’t_ touch the jar.”

He blinked, squeezing the bundle tighter, an electrical pulse racing along his forearms. He dismissed the strange sensation with a cheeky grin and a wink.

“Like I said, Scout’s honor.”

* * *

Theo held his breath as he reached into the cavity of the torso, sliding his fingers beneath the right kidney and carefully lifting it free. He set the slick bean-shaped organ into the swinging metal scale and recorded the reading onto the chart. The thick rubber gloves made holding the pen difficult, the instrument slipping and sliding from his blood-soaked grip.

But at last he had all the major organs accounted for. Their weight aligned with their appearance, no major anomalies or visible defects to account for the bizarre outward appearance of the body. Besides the fact the heart was punctured through the center, the right ventricle ripped clean away, making the cause of death easily discernible.

The skeletal samples were another matter. The corpse’s bone density was certainly outside any range Theo had ever encountered before.

He stepped away from the table and pulled the cumbersome gloves free at last, flexing his fingers and grabbing up the tray of blood and tissue samples. He crossed the room and slid open the top drawer of the ice chest, situating the rack of vials inside as an incessant pounding started from the landing above.

He grit his teeth, pushing the drawer shut with his boot, a cloud of frozen condensation filling his lungs.

“Go _away_.”

The banging continued unabated, harder, more frantic.

“Nott! Open up you creepy bastard!” Another pound. “I know you’re in there! You never leave your cave!”

He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not leaving till you get your skinny ass out here!”

He pulled at the ties of his apron, ripping the blood-splattered garment over his head with a feral growl. “Fucking imbecile!”

He barrelled up the metal steps, gripping the handrails in a vice as the racket continued from the other side of the door.

“Nott Nott Nott Nott Nott!”

He slid open the locks and wrenched open the barrier, bright sunlight spilling in, blinding, but he knew his morning visitor by voice alone.

“Goddammit, Finnegan! You’re more useless than the corpses on my table!”

The man smiled, leaning a palm against the brick of the alley. “Good to see you, too.”

“What do you want?”

He gestured to a covered heap at his back. “I have a fresh one for ya, warm off the pavement. Scraped her up this morning.”

“How wonderfully enticing.” Theo set his jaw, spine straightening as he gripped the knob. “Unfortunately, I’m full-up at the moment. So kindly fuck off.”

He attempted to slam the door but the idiot wedged the toe of his boot in the jam, eyes wide.

“Hold it! What do you mean full-up?”

“You’re about as intelligent as the corpses as well.”

“You can’t be full, you have an entire warehouse to store them in!”

Theo scowled. “In case it’s escaped your notice, Einstein, bodies decay. Rapidly. If I stack them like insulation along the fucking walls I’m bound to draw unwanted attention.”

Finnegan opened and closed his mouth like a gaping fish. “Well, can’t you put her on ice?”

“Ice melts. And there’s the little problem of having it delivered.”

“I can bring you some–”

“Finnegan.” His gaze narrowed.  
“I’m. Not. Interested.”

He attempted to close the door a second time, groaning as the man stuck out a hand, pushing it the other way.

“Well what the fuck am I supposed to do with her?”

“Put her back where you got her for all I care.”

“I can’t! That place is swarming with cops–”

“Cops?” Theo stood at attention, releasing the door. “Where did you find her?”

“Outside the Park.”

“Why were the police there?”

The man shrugged. “I don’t know. I think there was another body inside. They’ve been piling up lately.”

Theo’s gaze darted to the tarp-wrapped body. “Are you able to discern her cause of death?”

“Since when has that mattered to you?”

“Does she have any visible puncture wounds?”

Finnegan blinked. “Like, from a needle? She doesn’t look like a junkie.”

Theo sighed deeply, shaking his head. “Never mind.” His teeth clenched. “Alright. I’ll take her. $8.50.”

Finnegan reared back, gripping the door frame to stay upright. “What? That’s only half the rate!”

“I’m charging you for the circus routine you conducted. If you’d brought the police to my door we’d both be on our way to the jailhouse.”

“I was just kidding around–”

“$8.50. Take it or leave it. But decide quickly, I’m busy.”

"There are others who would pay at least ten for a girl like this!”

“Wonderful, then you know your next destination.”

Theo stepped back, gripping the edge of the door once more. Finnegan threw his arms up.

“Alright! Fuck!” His gaze flashed. “You’re one twisted bastard, Nott.”

Theo reached into his back pocket. “A twisted bastard who keeps you gainfully employed.” He extracted the notes and change and handed them over, holding the man’s gaze. “This is the last. I’ll send word when I have space for more. If you show up before then, I’ll leave you out here to rot with the rest of the garbage in the hot sun. Do you understand?”

Finnegan’s face twisted in a sneer. “Perfectly, _Doctor_.”

Theo gestured to the alley with his chin. “Go. I’ll bring her in.”

He watched the man saunter away, gait broken by some long-ago injury, before leaning down and hoisting the dead weight into his arms. The body was stunningly light. He wondered if Finnegan had the nerve to bring him another child. His eyes narrowed at the thought, vowing to cut business ties with the fool immediately.

He brought the delivery inside, kicking the door closed and carefully maneuvering the slight bundle down the staircase. He was halfway to the sublevel when he smelled something acrid on the air. His eyes flickered to the metal table on instinct.

His heart skipped, arms nearly fumbling their load. He quickly moved the body to a nearby gurney and then crossed to the center of the room, transfixed by the sight before him. He wet his lips, thoughts rapid firing as he tried to make sense of what happened, how such a transformation was possible…

And then his gleaming gaze slowly tracked upward, latching onto the door.

“You were right, Potter.” His lips curved upward of their own accord. “I’m thoroughly intrigued by this one.”

* * *

Lavender popped her head out from behind the door. “Alright, moment of truth!”

Parvati smirked, crossing her legs on the couch and settling back into the cushion. “Would you like a drumroll?”

“If you feel so inclined.”

She laughed. “How about I close my eyes instead?”

“Even better.”

She pressed a palm to her lids, shaking her head. Lavender shifted behind the door. “Ready?”

“I was ready two hours ago.”

“That’s how long it took to stuff myself into this thing.”

Parvati snorted, falling silent as the hinges creaked and heels sounded across the hardwood, stopping just before her.

A sweltering beat.

“Alright. Open.”

Parvati dropped her hand, shoulders tense and eyes still closed.

And then she slowly parted her lids, swallowing heavily.

Lavender raised a brow, palms outspread to either side as she rocked back. “ _Well_? What’s the verdict?”

Parvati drew in a short breath, nails pressing into the worn upholstery. “You look stunning. As always.”

The blonde’s shoulders dropped. “That’s it? I spent a month’s earnings on this thing.”

Parvati wet her lips, glancing away. “You look mesmerizing, Lav.”

Lavender released her breath in a rush, dropping to the arm of the couch and slumping back, idly picking up a lock of her friend’s dark hair and twirling it around her finger.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s wrong?”

Parvati set her jaw, crossing her arms. “Nothing.”

Lavender rolled her eyes. “I don’t have time to pry it out of you before I leave, which means you’ll be stuck here stewing with it all night.” She leaned in close and ran her nails along the girl’s bare arm, speaking in a sing-song voice. “ _Might as well just tell me…_ ”

The brunette rounded on her, dark eyes flashing. “Why do you put up with that idiot?”

Lavender blinked, drawing back. “Who?”

“The Ginger lap dog who leaves a trail of drool behind everywhere he goes!”

She laughed shortly. “Ron isn’t _that_ bad–”

“He isn’t good enough for you.”

“Christ, we aren’t _dating_ , Parv.”

“Did you charge him for last night?”

She sighed, turning away. Parvati shifted, facing her fully. “If you aren’t charging then it’s not business.”

“I’m tired of discussing this with you. I’m sorry you don’t like him, but he’s one of my most loyal clients and I have no plans of ditching him.” Lavender ran her fingertips over the silk of her dress, smoothing invisible wrinkles. “Besides. He treats me good.”

Parvati raised a challenging brow. “Does he?”

“Compared to others, yes.”

Her gaze darkened. “I told you to quit.”

Lavender’s clenched her teeth as she leaned forward, preparing to stand. “I’m tired of having this discussion as well–”

“Lav, please.” Parvati grabbed her arm, holding her in place. “You could earn a decent wage at the factory–”

“A decent wage? So you read fortunes nearly every night because you’re bored with all your free time?”

She glared, releasing her arm as though burned. “Working at the mill and reading fortunes is a _hell_ of a lot better than turning tricks all day.”

The blonde leaped to her feet, the rhinestones in her headband catching the light. “Christ, tell me what you really think!”

“Lav–”

“How can you bear living with such a whore?”

"That isn't what I meant!"

“No? What _did_ you mean?”

Parvati shot to her feet, fists clenched. “You put your life at risk every time you let one of those disgusting animals put their hands on you! It’s a miracle you’ve only been beaten and raped once!”

Lavender staggered back with the impact, eyes brimming with tears. “That– that wasn't–” She pressed a hand to her chest. “How _dare_ you bring that up!”

“I have to! I’m worried sick every goddamn day!”

“Then stop! I didn't ask you to worry! I didn’t ask for your advice!”

“Well tough shit! I care about you so I’m going to worry! And I’m your fucking friend so I’m going to give you my fucking advice!”

“Friend?” She shook her head, crossing her arms. “I don’t think so.”

Parvati surged forward “Please–”

“Don’t touch me!” Lavender threw her hands up, backing away. “If you were my _friend_ you wouldn't sit in silent judgment every single day!"

“I don’t judge you–”

“You do! I see it in your eyes and hear it in your voice! You try your best to disguise it but it’s still there, brimming just beneath the surface, always one second away from reaching the top.”

Parvati swallowed thickly, her own gaze misting over, blurring her surroundings, only Lavender’s face in perfect clarity.

“I just wish you didn’t put yourself at risk–”

“Is that really it? You’re terrified for my safety?”

“Yes!”

The blonde leveled her with a stare. “Because five people have been gravely injured at your factory already this year, and I don’t see you handing out safety pamphlets to the rest of the crew.”

Parvati stepped back, knees hitting the table. “That’s totally different.”

Lavender slowly advanced, propelled by the vehemence scorching a path through her veins. “Is it? What about the neighborhood you read fortunes in, Parv? How many murders have occurred there in the last _month_?”

“I… that’s not–”

“Of course not. Because you risk your life with your legs closed, so it’s acceptable.”

“Stop putting words in my mouth!”

She shook her head, turning towards the door. “I’m leaving.”

“Lavender, _please_ –”

“We can talk more when I get home.”

“But–”

“I can’t be late.” She grabbed her satin shawl off the rack and cast a measured glare over her shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to keep my new customer waiting. He’s loaded. I’ll earn our entire month’s rent in a night. You’re welcome.”

Parvati’s fists curled tight once more, nails puncturing the calloused skin of her palms. “I’d rather work my hands bloody for the money.”

Lavender scoffed, opening the door. “Fine. You can come up with your share on your own then.”

She slammed it behind her with a bang, deafening as a gunshot. Parvati pressed a hand to her heart and sank to the floor.

It felt like one, too.

* * *

Hermione stopped at the corner, pedestrians clustered around her as they waited for the light to turn. She felt an electric current race along the back of her neck, ghosting down her spine as soft as breath, the sensation of being watched overwhelming her senses.

She glanced over her shoulder on instinct, heart jolting as she caught sight of the man standing a few paces behind.

Staring blatantly at her backside.

The brim of his cap lifted, eyes widening as he met her gaze. She glanced forward sharply, a flush blossoming across her cheeks as the air seemed to swell, a heavy buzz gaining momentum in the back of her mind, followed by a steady metallic click, spaced at regular intervals, like a timer.

Or a countdown.

Her eyes darted to the street lamp, watching it turn from green to yellow as the clicking grew faster and faster.

She swallowed heavily, swaying in place as more people piled along the curb, pressing into her shoulders, forcing her heels along the cement. She felt claustrophobic, breathless, buried alive–

The light turned red and the crowd surged into the crosswalk, dragging her forward. She staggered for a moment, gasping lightly and pulling at the collar of her blouse, forcing one foot in front of the other as she attempted to pull free from the mass of bodies.

She emerged from the crowd at last, breathing deep and turning the corner, only for her chest to seize anew as the sprawling Museum came into view, blood red banners rippling in the breeze, proudly announcing the upcoming exhibit. She took a steadying breath before embarking up the stairs, lifting her arm to grasp the handle of the door.

She gasped as the barrier swung open of its own accord, a well-dressed man exiting swiftly, drawing up short as his gaze fell upon her. She forced a polite smile, attempting to sidestep his form, only to freeze in place as his arm shot out before her chest, grasping the door and holding it wide.

She blinked twice, nodding her appreciation and darting inside, ignoring the bright gleam in his gaze as he watched her pass.

“Hermione!”

She shrieked, jolting in place as a figure appeared at her side.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She released a sharp breath, pressing a hand to her racing heart as she deflated. “It’s not your fault, Anthony. I’m just a bit jumpy today.”

She tucked a loose curl behind her ear, starting a path across the lobby. “Good morning.” She glanced sideways as he fell into step beside her. “How do you always manage to catch me at the door? You don’t stand there waiting for me, do you?”

“Sometimes.”

She blinked, lips curving up as he turned a feverish red.

“I– I mean, only when I know you’re on your way and I have something important to share–”

“Relax, Anthony. I’m only teasing you.”

He blushed harder, making her smile outright. “So, what news do you have to share today?”

“Oh, right.” He peered forward as they progressed over the sea of glossy tile. “Mr. Malfoy said he’d be by to speak with you later regarding an important matter.”

Her gut clenched painfully at the reminder. She cleared her throat, grasping for a change of topic.

“Did the Museum suffer a power outage last night?”

He shook his head. “No, it just missed 5th Avenue. Were you hit?”

She nodded. “All of Greenwich.”

“Bizarre. They still can’t figure out what caused it.”

“I assumed a transformer exploded.”

“It did. But they don’t know what set it off. The readings were normal all night until seconds before the surge hit, then every meter skyrocketed. They’re bringing in specialists to try and work it out.”

“This was in the newspaper?”

His expression turned bashful as he tucked his hands into his pockets. “Not exactly… my girlfriend’s brother works for the utility.”

She met his eye and grinned. “Insider knowledge. I love it.”

He smiled in turn as they entered an arched corridor at the other end of the floor.

“And why haven’t I met your girlfriend? You get free tickets to the Museum whenever you want, you must bring her by.”

He glanced away, shoulder lifting in a shrug. “I didn’t want to mix work with personal affairs.”

She nodded slowly, gazing ahead at a pair of security guards approaching from the opposite direction, deep in conversation. Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs. But she kept her chin raised, nodding politely as they passed, once more directing her attention to the young man beside her.

“A sound motto indeed, but one that mostly applies to dating one’s boss. I think your career can withstand bringing your girlfriend to the Van Gogh exhibit one night.”

He laughed shortly. “Alright. I’ll do that.”

He paused at the end of the hallway, extracting his hands. “I’ve got some paperwork to finish up here.”

She nodded, adjusting the strap over her shoulder. “Alright, swing by later if you’d like, we can finish up our lesson on Runic texts.”

He began to back away. “Thank you, I will.”

She watched him turn on his heel and then did the same, rounding the corner with a swift forward glance, only to collide with another body, staggering back with the impact.

“Oh! Please excuse–” Her jaw clamped, recognizing the sleek blonde bob a moment before the rest of the symmetrical face came into view. “Daphne?”

The woman stepped back on her heels, steadying herself with far more grace. “Hello, Hermione. My apologies.”

“I–” Hermione shook her head, shifting awkwardly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

She studied her delicate features more closely, taking note of the red-rimmed eyes and smudged mascara.

“Are you…” She wet her lips, hands opening and closing uselessly at her sides. “I’m so sorry, Daphne. I meant to tell you sooner but the police were–” She stopped abruptly, unsure how to continue. She changed course instead, pushing forward. “Have there been any updates?”

Daphne swallowed thickly, ruby painted lips pressed thin. “No.” Her eyes followed suit. “The police are fucking useless, pardon my tongue.”

Hermione nodded, chin lifting in solidarity. "Don't apologize. I share in that sentiment wholeheartedly."

Daphne roamed Hermione’s figure with more care, causing her to shift awkwardly, feeling terribly plain before the heiress.

“Ginevra is still missing?”

The question caught her off guard, jolting her heart.

“Yes. Though they refuse to group her disappearance with the others. They still say she ran away from home without a single belonging or dime to her name.”

Daphne inhaled through her nose, the edge of her jaw cutting a sharp line as it clenched. “My father’s hired a team of private investigators, but they’re hardly more competent than the NYPD it would seem.”

“They’ve found nothing at all?”

“Nothing substantial. Only rumor and hearsay from street vagrants.”

Hermione felt something inside her give way, falling to the bottom of her stomach, dead and lifeless. She opened her mouth to ask more but Daphne spoke first, eyes hard-set and faceted.

“They said there’s less than a five percent chance Astoria is still in the city.” A beat. “And I mustn’t forget, there’s less than a twelve percent chance she’s still alive at all.”

Hermione’s brows creased. “That’s a lot of math to base on zero findings.”

The blonde nodded stoically, tears brimming at last. She turned her face away, wiping covertly at the corners. “Well, I just came to pay Draco his update. I should be going.”

Hermione shifted towards the wall as the woman began to stride past, only to reach out on instinct, hand encapsulating her arm of its own accord.

“Daphne.”

The women halted so quickly she rocked on her tall heels, swaying like a reed in a storm. Hermione held her gaze. “Don’t listen to the statistics. Listen to your heart.”

Daphne searched her gaze for several moments, finally wetting her lips, voice low and strained. “My heart’s shattered. I don’t know what it’s telling me anymore.”

Hermione swallowed thickly, gently squeezing. “They’re both out there. Somewhere.” Her fingers uncurled, hand dropping away. “We’ll bring them home.”

Daphne continued to stare at her in silence, until at last she lifted her chin, eyes sparkling as she peered down her nose. “It was good to see you, Hermione.”

She turned away without awaiting a response, starting up the corridor with poised and measured steps.

“Goodbye, Daphne,” Hermione whispered to the air, starting in the original direction she’d been heading.

A few minutes later she pushed open the door of the Archive Room and drifted inside with a weighted sigh, quickly approaching her preferred desk in the corner. She pulled the shawl off her shoulders and slung it across the opposite chair, noticing the parchment wrapped package already situated at the center of the workstation.

Her disheartening exchange with Daphne was already forgotten in lieu of her festering panic regarding the jar. She wondered if Malfoy told his father, if the British Museum had been notified, or even the authorities...

She shook her head, walking to the supply shelf and grabbing up a pair of cotton gloves, slipping them into place as she approached the desk, eyes affixed to the package. She was too deep into this mess to turn back now. There was no point in worrying, in asking too many questions and drawing attention to herself or Harry. No, she made her choice and had to watch the chips fall where they may. A terrifying prospect, but losing another loved one was even worse.

_I’ll wait for Malfoy to stop by and deliver his news… then I can fill out an official report. Everything will be by the book._

_They won’t suspect a thing._

Her hands trembled as she took her seat and slid the package closer, carefully opening the bottom flap and sliding the stacked parchment free.

Translating was always an old standby. Her most beloved pastime. And exactly what she was in dire need of at the moment.

* * *

Harry sidestepped a busted crate and rotting pile of garbage, stopping before the metal accordion gate and knocking swiftly, shoulders tight with anticipation.

There was no response from within. He grit his teeth, feet spreading into an age-old defensive stance as he knocked once more, the side of his fist absorbing the heavy impact with every mighty strike.

At last the steady tread of footsteps could be heard echoing off the stairwell hidden beyond, prompting him to drop his arm but not his defenses.

Another fleeting second passed, saturated with eerie stillness before the door swung open, Nott’s scowling face revealed, absent any goggles.

“Finnegan you _fucking_ idi–” A beat. “Oh. It’s you.”

Harry raised a dark brow, a noxious odor filtering out of the warehouse and filling his nose with a chemical sting. “Way to make a guy feel special, Nott.”

“I’m sure you’re just as big of an idiot as my last visitor.”

“Too late to sweet talk me now.”

Nott rolled his eyes, stepping back onto the metal landing and allowing Harry room to pass. As he crossed the threshold the smell increased only slightly, the worst of it seeming to dissipate into the alleyway beyond.

Nott slammed the door, sliding the heavy locks into place and submerging them into a pool of halogen light. “I wasn’t sure if you were coming back.”

Harry peered over his shoulder, confusion written on his face. “I told you I would.”

Nott led the path down the swaying staircase. “You’re also tied to a homicide. I’d thought you’d skip town.”

Harry scowled at the back of the man’s head, cursing his neatly styled hair, so well maintained compared to his own defunct mane. “It wasn’t _homicide_. It was self–” He shook his head, lungs decompressing in a whoosh. “Never mind. Just give me the fucking body.”

Nott stepped onto the sublevel, casually tucking his hands into his trouser pockets, shoulders eased. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Harry blinked, step faltering. “Why not?”

Nott stopped beside the metal table they’d last huddled around, a familiar blood-stained tarp wrapping a lumpy mass. “I ran into a bit of a problem.”

Harry’s heart rattled around the walls of his ribs, creating powerful tremors that ran the full length of his body. “What kind of problem?”

Nott’s gaze shifted to the table. “ _This_ kind of problem.”

He lifted a hand and grasped the top of the fabric, pulling it away in an impressive flourish.

Harry’s eyes flickered down.

And blinked.

He stepped closer, movements slow and tentative, perversely drawn to the image before him. “What the hell did you do to it?”

“I performed a standard autopsy.”

His head snapped up. “And then set it on fire?”

“This building isn’t equipped for smoke ventilation, otherwise I would have an onsite cremation oven.”

Harry shook his head, stopping at the edge of the table and peering down at the blackened, smoking skeleton laid out before them.

“I don’t understand.”

Nott tilted his head, eyes slowly tracking the charred remains, cataloging every detail as he went. "I didn't either. At first. I turned my back for a few minutes and returned to find it positively charred to shit." He propped a hip against the table, crossing his arms in a disturbingly casual repose. "And then I realized what I had done, unwittingly of course, and tested my hypothesis with a few of the samples I extracted prior to the–"

“English, Nott.”

He sighed, holding Harry’s gaze. “The body burned in the sunlight.”

Harry clutched the lip of the table for balance. “ _What_?”

Nott’s eyes turned to the landing above, tone stunningly measured. “I opened the door. Daylight filtered through the stairs and onto the table. That was the only environmental change that occurred, the only possible explanation to be had.”

Harry wet his lips, leaning forward, drawn by the lure of the words. “You’re certain it was the sun?”

Nott met his gaze once more. “As I said, I tested the hypothesis with tissue samples I collected previously. They practically burst into flame the moment I opened the door.”

Harry’s jaw worked silently for several moments, chewing his words, unable to spit them out. He studied the blackened corpse, transfixed by the eyeless sockets, a black abyss contained at the center of each.

“You know what this means.”

Nott stood away from the table, glancing to the wall and dropping his arms. “It means we’re dealing with a rare and as of yet undocumented genetic disorder.”

Harry rounded on him quickly, an insurmountable pressure rapidly swelling in his chest. “Fuck genetic disorder! You _know_ what this thing is!”

Nott’s fists clenched tight, though his voice remained startlingly calm. “As you said, Potter, I’m a man of science. Therefore I must classify this anomaly within the realm of–”

“He’s a goddamn vampire.”

The silence following the statement was a tangible weight bearing down upon them both, locking them in place. Nott wet his lips, lifting his chin, eyes scanning the wall as though reading an invisible text.

“There are certain types of photodermatitis that cause–”

“A person to burst into fucking flames?”

He dragged a hand over his face, clearing the beads of perspiration from his temples. “If the body was introduced to a chemical agent beforehand–”

“And what about these?”

Harry gestured to the fangs, proudly extended and just as lethal as they appeared in the woods.

Nott rocked unsteadily on his feet, placing his hands on his hips and peering at the ground between his feet. “The shape of a person’s teeth hardly–”

“They fucking retract!”

His jaw snapped shut. Harry advanced on him quickly, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him in place. “His blood was thicker than tar. He took six bullets to the chest and gut and _laughed_ about it.” He held Nott’s eye with steely intensity, daring him to look away. “ _Why_ are you denying what’s right in front of you?” He leaned in closer. “Nott. You’re the most intelligent man I know. Don’t disappoint me now.”

Nott’s chin swiveled from side to side as his eyes flashed, no doubt overcome with an overabundance of information, desperate to process it all at once. At last he stepped free from Harry’s tight grasp, eyes glittering in the pulsing light.

“Given the overabundance of physical evidence and subsequent research findings…” He took a deep breath. Harry held his. “It would seem this man’s condition is adjacent to some form of… vampirism.”

Harry rocked back on his heels, the pressure in his chest dissipating at once. “Was that so hard?”

Nott’s features turned as sharp as his scalpel. “This isn’t a game, Potter. The magnitude of such a discovery alone…” He shook his head, carding a hand through his hair. “This defies every rule of nature and science known to man.”

Harry stepped towards the metal table, focusing on the body once more. “On the bright side, you finally have the earth-shattering breakthrough you’ve been after.”

Nott’s drew closer. “This is hardly a cure to cancer or Alzheimer's.”

Harry went rigid, glancing over his shoulder. “Alzheimer’s?” His fists clenched. “Do you still talk to her?”

“Put down the sword, Potter. Your fair maiden isn’t the only one affected by the disease. And it has no bearing on the current circumstances. If I take this public I’ll be an even bigger laughing stock than I am now.”

Harry shook his head, facing him fully. “We aren't taking it public. Not until we find Ginny.”

“Who?”

“This man was lingering outside a crime scene in the Park, where another girl was–”

“He attacked you in the Park?”

Harry blinked. “Yes.” He watched as Nott began to pace around the end of the slab, running a pale hand over his mouth. “What is it?”

“I just received another body from that area. With the most peculiar wounds.”

Nott cut a direct path across the room, submerging himself in shadow and disappearing from sight. Harry forced his feet to follow, stomach clenched painfully as he ventured once more into the unknown. A metallic click echoed off the walls, followed by a surge of light as a lamp was switched on, revealing a narrow table pressed along the wall.

A body was centered across it, covered by a white, pressed sheet. Only the feet were visible, skin yellow and veins blue, the delicate arch suggesting a feminine frame. Nott grabbed the top of the fabric and pulled it back without warning, revealing the head and shoulders of the naked corpse.

Harry’s back went stiff, vision hazing as a pale, gaunt face came into view. She was young, perhaps only a teenager, with an auburn bob that so closely resembled Ginny’s his heart seized for an earth-shattering moment.

But no, upon closer inspection this girl couldn’t look more different from his missing friend. His shoulders lowered, breath releasing in a slow rush. He allowed his gaze to track past her face and hair, settling upon the mottled, bruised flesh of her neck.

His fists clenched as Nott pulled the sheet lower, as though reading the direction of his thoughts. The precise incisions of her autopsy were revealed to the green light, stitches evenly spaced and pristine. Her breasts were small, as was her waist, every rib straining against the skin, malnutrition evidenced further in her shrunken pelvis and gaping thighs.

But her wiry frame wasn’t the cause of his racing heart or shortened breath. He stepped closer, leaning in, eyes wide and transfixed as the floor radiated beneath his feet with a distant hum, causing every bone to vibrate. His lips parted at last, voice low.

“Are those bite marks?”

Nott tilted his head, eyes tracking her injuries with clinically detachment. “It would seem so.”

Harry stepped to the middle of the table, focusing upon a deep wound on her hip, the skin broken in several places, surrounded by purple and blue flesh.

“These are human teeth.”

Nott nodded slowly, gripping the sheet tightly. “That would also seem so.”

Harry paled, eyes alighting from one bite to the next. They covered her torso, her breasts, her thighs. He swallowed thickly. “His teeth retract. Maybe this is another way vampires feed off victims.”

“Her blood wasn’t drained. She died from strangulation.”

Harry shook his head, pushing away from the table and its inhabitant on stiff knees. “Are you telling me there’s someone else out there, gnawing on people like a goddamn animal?”

Nott pulled the sheet back into place, hiding the mangled corpse from view, tone deadpan. “Welcome to New York City.”

* * *

Hermione carefully laid another scroll to her right, ensuring the papyrus didn't overlap. She turned to the next page in her journal, absently squirming in her chair as a chill stole across her limbs. The room was temperature and humidity controlled, designed to keep out moisture, leaving the air frigid. She kept meaning to pick up her shawl but was too engrossed in her task to abandon her work for even a moment.

She smoothed a strand of hair away from her face with a cotton gloved hand and then set to her task once more, carefully selecting the next document off the pile to her left.

As much as she missed the days on on-site excavation, translating ancients texts had always been her one true love, the first skill she ever developed, still too young to accompany her father on his trips just yet. The scrolls laid out before her now had already been translated by the British Museum, but Hermione was tasked with creating a separate document for the Met, equipped with American colloquialism and her own personal flourish. She had a way with language that institutions were hard-pressed to find in their host countries.

The key wasn’t simply in interpretation, which any Egyptologist worth their salt could accomplish, but in disseminating the information in a way that wasn’t only educational but highly engaging. She derived no greater joy than in watching students gather around her translations, parents reading her words aloud to their bright-eyed children, the open excitement on their young faces as they experienced an Ancient Myth for the first time.

Perhaps her writing would one day inspire the next generation of archaeologists and scholars. Perhaps they could go on to accomplish all the things she never could.

She shook her head, dismissing the melancholy notion and focusing upon the task at hand. She translated for the British Museum and similar institutions often, but typically only had black and white photographs at her disposal. To have the tangible artifacts in hand was a rare treat indeed, one she wouldn’t waste by dwelling on the past.

She wet her lips, aligning the papyrus before her and leaning in, pen poised at the ready as she began reading. Like the others before it, this text documented the reign of Amenemhat and Neferitatjenen, describing the era as one of great wealth and prosperity. According to the authors, the people loved them. Of course, history was often recorded by educated slaves and servants whose most pressing concern was appeasing their master.

Still, given the extravagance of the burial finery, it seemed the Pharaoh and his consort were truly beloved even in death.

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she tried to discern the more faded hieroglyphs along the edges of the document. It seemed Amenemhat paid tribute to his gods throughout the year, and they in turn blessed him and his people with riches far greater than any Kingdom had known before, erecting a new capital city from the very sand, every structure made of solid gold.

Her heart seized as she read the name of the fabled land, images flashing through her mind, an onslaught of emotion she was helpless to quell.

 _Itjtawy_.

The Golden City.

Lost forever to the great sands of Egypt.

Of all the fantastical tales her father told throughout her childhood, and there were many to be certain, Itjtawy was always her favorite. The one she asked him to recount time and time again, until she could repeat every word without pause or fail, much to his great delight and amusement.

Every time they visited Cairo she begged him to allot time for their search of the fallen city. He always refused, setting his foot down, citing work and permit deadlines as far more pressing concerns. But a few days later he always relented, driving her 100 kilometers south of the capital where scholars claimed the city once stood.

Alas, every time they arrived, they found nothing but sand.

Some myths said the city was still alive today, buried deep beneath the desert, cursed by vengeful gods to punish mortals for their earthly vanity. Her father told her the city was in the sky, raised to Aaru by those same gods to honor the ancient people of Egypt for all eternity.

But Hermione held a different belief, one that she derived all her own, after countless hours of painstaking research. She believed the ancient texts purposely misled scholars as a way of protecting the true location of Itjtawy.

It still existed. Somewhere.

Waiting to be found.

And she vowed to be the one to find it.

She smiled at the text before her, heart swelling with the surge as she blinked her tears at bay, mortified they formed in the first place. Such memories felt like a lifetime ago. She supposed in a lot of ways they were. If only she could go back to being a girl, so innocent, so ignorant, no worries to fill her days beyond the all-important matter of treasure hunting.

She swallowed thickly, finishing her translation describing the Golden City and setting the papyrus aside, reaching for the next. This one instantly caught her eye, a familiar symbol pulsating from the parchment, saturated more boldly than the surrounding images.

Her eyes widened as she read further along, fingers tightening upon the pen, a tremor seizing her wrist. It discussed the Festival of Intoxication held in Sekhmet's honor, held at the height of akhet when the streets of Itjtawy ran thick with blood.

She smirked at the dramatic flourish, the vivid mental image it conjured. She almost regretted having to add an annotation to the bottom of her page, explaining the mechanics of the phenomena.

Akhet, or the inundation, was the period of summer when the Nile overflowed into the streets, courtesy of melting snow from the Ethiopian Mountains and heavy rainfall. Of course, the water’s blood red color had just as lackluster an explanation. The surrounding vegetation radiated enough heat to stain the overflow red with sediment.

How she wished she could leave the myth unexplained, further weaving magic into the minds of the patrons who visited the collection. Alas, it was her job to discern fict from fact, and if she was one thing, it was highly competent at her work.

She squirmed anew, eager to learn more about the elusive celebration in the goddess’s honor. She’d heard it referenced in several texts over the years but never came across any specifics. She pinned her bottom lip between her teeth and read on.

It seemed the celebration served a dual purpose, to honor the War Goddess and to initiate new members into her temple. The living and undead alike sought her favor, competing for a chance to serve her for all eternity.

Candidates were brutally tested, facing down the Ritual of Death and battling beasts of the underworld to prove their devotion and worthiness. But the challenge posed two parts, not only the object of survival but the greater purpose of overcoming one's greatest fear. Those who slew the beast but still bore doubt and fear in their hearts were disqualified, unworthy of serving their Warrior Queen. Only a select few were ushered into the doors of the temple and granted elite membership.

Sekhmet’s priests and priestesses were considered extremely powerful and, at least according to the passage, answered directly to Neferitatjenen, who oversaw the great temple.

Hermione wet her lips, leaning back.

Curious.

She would have assumed the Pharaoh himself would control such a powerful institution. But perhaps this was the most practical arrangement, especially if he was engaged in matters of war throughout the summer months when invading forces were more likely to attack.

Still, she was curious about his consort. Neferitatjenen seemed to have great power and control of her people, a rare quality for female rulers of the period. She finished translating the description of the Festival and set the parchment aside, grabbing for the next in the pile, hand trembling of its own accord.

This one spoke of her in great detail, as though it could sense the direction of Hermione’s thoughts and sought to provide answers. It talked of Neferitatjenen’s presence, how she seemed to radiate a bright light when she stood at the altar before the masses, how her voice radiated over miles of desert effortlessly, filling the minds of her soldiers no matter how far away they resided, inspiring hope and bravery in their hearts. She could compel an entire army to charge into battle or to lay down their weapons and die with merely a word.

Hermione leaned back once more, blinking slowly as her pulse thrummed. The descriptions between Sekhmet and Neferitatjenen were becoming more and more blurred with every text, which she supposed made sense considering the latter held such close ties to the former’s temple. The people obviously viewed their Queen as the mortal representation of Sekhmet on earth, a living embodiment of the Goddess herself–

_“Our most Sacred Ruler. The Great Mother. The Beloved Creator of our people.”_

She gasped, rearing back in her chair, nearly tipping it off balance before the legs settled back to the floor. The air seemed to swell around her, as though a new presence had entered the room, electricity snapping along her skin, raising the fine hairs along her arms and nape.

Movement to her side drew her gaze, she spun rapidly, nearly toppling anew, choking back a shout of panic as the figure materialized fully before her eyes, not an apparition at all.

No. Unfortunately, he was quite real.

“So tell me, Granger.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the desk, feet crossing at the ankles as he gazed over his shoulder at the texts strewn before her. “If you read the wrong spell aloud will the dead rise from their tombs and try to kill us all?”

She shook her head, fighting to regain her composure, settling back into her seat and pulling the chair forward. “Your mind has clearly been warped by one too many fiction novels, Malfoy. Try reading something with a bibliography once in a while.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

She carefully set the parchment aside, grabbing up the last and final text in the shipment. “Egyptian spells were meant to reunite Kings with their Gods and usher souls through the underworld, not reanimate the dead.”

“How boring.” He tilted his head, blonde hair falling into his pale gaze. “What about the plagues?”

His dress shoes gleamed beneath the overhead lights, an errant distraction to her peripheral vision, as was the thick cloud of aftershave assaulting her senses, overwhelming in the barren space.

“What about them?”

“Won’t they unleash chaos upon anyone who defaces an artifact?”

She sighed deeply, giving up her attempt at translating the final text and pushing back from the desk with a huff. “Is that how you’re hoping to get the jar back?”

He gazed around the bright space with a mischievous expression. “A nice swarm of locusts would certainly liven things up around here. The Archive Room is far too sterile.”

"It's supposed to be sterile." She leaned forward and began gathering the completed documents, carefully gripping along their edges and lifting from the center. "And the Plagues of Egypt, as you know them, are a Biblical narrative that derived separately from the Ancient Egyptian polytheistic belief system."

She wet her lips, stacking the texts with just as much care. “Furthermore, sacred spells were recorded for the use of priests and priestesses alone. Only they were able to channel the power of Heka, _magic_ , thereby making the writings useless in the hands of the common people.” She opened the package the documents came in, carefully sliding the papyrus back inside. “And lastly, even if magic _were_ real, no one alive today is able to read Ancient Egyptian properly.”

He blinked, studying her profile as she focused on her task. “You read it all the time.”

“I _interpret_ it all the time. I convert the symbols into meaning in my mind and suss out the overall message.” She folded the flap over the end, wrapping the twine around the clasp to bind it in place. “Hieroglyphs are written in consonants. We estimate vowels by comparing the root of the word against African languages existing today and then pronounce them in our own native tongue.” She centered the package before her, finally taking a full breath. “In other words, if I were to attempt to read an ancient spell aloud the dead would rise only to laugh at me.”

Several beats of silence followed.

She blinked, wondering if he’d left. But when her gaze lifted it was immediately captured by his own, his features quaking with barely tamped amusement.

“Well. The more you know.”

She scowled, crossing her arms. “Are we going to discuss the jar sometime today?”

“You’ve been the one rambling about spells and plagues for the last twenty minutes.”

She rolled her eyes, pushing back from the desk and rotating in her chair to face him, carefully crossing her legs to avoid brushing his knee. “We need to fill out a report–”

“There’s no need.”

Her heart stuttered. “Why not?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, face tensing as though struggling to suppress a mighty yawn. “I got a call from the British Museum early this morning to check on the status of the shipment.”

She leaned forward, pulse throbbing in her knees and wrists, drowning out the hum of the overhead lights. “What did you tell them?”

“The truth, obviously. Though I left out the details of your rather unbecoming panic attack. You’re welcome.”

“Malfoy. What did they say?”

“They apologized for their mistake. Seems someone forgot to pack the jar, _just_ as I said.”

She pressed back in the chair, arms falling bonelessly to her sides as her jaw fell slack.

“ _What_?”

He pinned her with a narrowed gaze. “I believe the words you’re looking for are _you were right, Malfoy, and I’m sorry I–_ ”

“That can’t be.”

“Christ, Granger, I know it’s hard for you to wrap your giant brain around but mistakes _do_ happen on occasion.”

She swallowed heavily, struggling to keep her voice steady. “It wasn’t the British Museum you spoke to.”

He blinked, ankles uncrossing as both feet braced the floor. “What are you talking about?”

She leaped to her feet in a whirl, taking him so off guard he nearly lost balance as he stepped back. Her eyes were unrelenting, fists balled tight. “Who actually called?”

He searched her gaze, as though trying to discern the question for some hidden meaning. “Some British chap–”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t remember–”

“ _Think_ , Malfoy!”

She blinked, vision swimming with white, sagging into the desk as the floor tilted beneath her feet.

“Granger–” He dove forward as she lost her balance, gripping her arms before she plummeted to the ground. “Christ, you’re pale as a sheet.”

"I…" She blinked slowly, trying to clear her sight of the smoky haze. The hum of the overhead lights became deafening, smothering the rapid pace of her heart. "I'm fine."

“Mumbles the swooning woman.”

She grit her teeth, pushing against him. “I’m not swooning.”

Her struggles tipped them both off balance, her dead weight dragging him down with her as they sank to the floor in a slow sprawl. The buzzing changed, spitting off in different directions until it wasn't an electrical current she heard anymore but voices, an endless sea of whispers, distant but distinct, loud and incessant, overlapping so heavily she couldn't discern one from the next.

“Do… do you hear that?”

She felt him tense beside her, arm pressing his chest, able to feel the steady thrum of his heart but unable to see his face.

“Hear what?”

She squinted, peering up, the lights blinding as the desert sun. “The voices…”

His sharp exhale ghosted across her neck. “I’m calling an ambulance–”

“No!” Her outburst shocked them both. She spun in place, gripping his lapels with wide eyes, his pale, pointed features slowly taking shape from the ether. “I’m okay.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Please, Malfoy. I can’t…” She forced a steadying breath, loosening her grip on his jacket and trying it again, calmer. “A hospital will try and admit me.”

“Exactly.”

She could practically hear the scowl in his voice.

“I can’t leave my father unattended and I can’t afford overnight care for him.”

A heavy beat. His face came into clarity at last, eyes containing a rare flash of emotion she was hard-pressed to identify.

“Surely one of your friends–”

“I was so worried about the jar I forgot to eat after yesterday afternoon. That’s all.” She swallowed once more, working past the constriction in her throat, images of waking up sprawled across her office floor invading her mind. “My blood sugar dropped. I don’t need a hospital.”

His jaw ticked, eyes flickering between hers for another handful of seconds before his chin lifted. “Can you stand?”

“Yes.” A raised a brow at her rapid-fire response. She bit her lip, shoulders dropping. “With assistance.”

He released another heavy sigh, gripping her arms in a vice as he gathered his feet beneath him.

“Alright, _up_ we go.” He hoisted her along as he stood, groaning with the effort as she tipped into him, unsteady on her feet. He pulled the chair in and dumped her atop without ceremony. “You’re going to leave these texts where they are and go home.”

She lifted a hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the light, temples throbbing. “The exhibit is in two weeks, I have to–”

“That’s an order, Granger.”

She pressed back in her seat, indignation fueling her equilibrium. “You aren’t my boss.”

He tilted his head, eyes shining with a steady confidence inherent only to men of his station. “Would you prefer I send my father down to give the command instead?”

She couldn’t hide her cringe. He nodded, expression wrought with victory.

“I didn’t think so.”

“Malfoy, I just need to eat something and I’ll be fine.”

“Then consider it a personal day. I don’t care how you rationalize it to yourself, just don’t set foot on Museum grounds for the next eight hours or I’ll have you escorted off.”

She shook her head, stomach flip-flopping with the effort. She pressed a hand to her middle, breathing slowly. “Always so dramatic.”

“Mumbles the previously swooning woman.”

“I didn’t swoon.” She crossed her arms and glanced away, bottom lip slipping forward in a pout she was helpless to contain. “Fine. I’ll have a lie-in. Waste an otherwise perfectly productive day when there’s a mountain of work only I can perform balanced atop a rapidly approaching deadline.”

He stepped away from the chair. “That’s the spirit.” And started to cross the room, speaking over his shoulder. “Be gone by the time I get back.”

She bit her lip, watching his departure, speaking before she could contain the outburst.

“Malfoy.”

He paused at the door, turning in place with a harried and expectant look. She opened her mouth but the words failed her, everything she wanted to tell him about the jar turning to smoke on the air. She couldn’t tell him the truth without incriminating herself and Harry.

So she changed tactics, venturing into even murkier waters.

“I ran into Daphne earlier.”

He went rigid as a post, solidifying to marble before her eyes. She pressed on, too far in to turn back now. “I’m sorry about Astoria.”

His expression remained carefully void of emotion, jaw clenched tight. She was certain he would continue to stand that way forever, yet another addition to their Greek sculpture collection, when his lips finally parted, voice low and guarded.

“So am I.”

She nodded, fingers interlacing atop her lap. “I’m glad you’re there for Daphne. She seemed…” She shook her head, unsure how to complete the statement. “Like she could use a friend.”

He broke from the rigid mold at last, exhaling with such swiftness she felt the breeze it created from across the room.

“Was there a point to this?”

She sat straighter. “I just… if you ever wanted to talk about it, with someone who understands what you’re feeling–”

“Fucking hell, Granger.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “You can read over fifty ancient dialects but not simple body language.”

“I just wanted to offer.”

“Spectacular.” He dropped his hand, a raging tempest in his eyes. “Now your bleeding heart can rejoice and I can get on with my day.” He opened the door, straightening his pristine coat and silk tie. “Other swooning women to catch and all that, I’m sure you understand.”

He turned on his heal and departed with as much silent grace as he entered with.

She leaned forward, shouting into the hallway.

“I _didn’t_ swoon!”

His laughter followed him down the corridor. A moment later he turned the corner, disappearing from sight. She pivoted in her chair, staring at the sealed package of texts. She thought of the accompanying shipment. The stolen jar. The fake call. The dead man.

A violent sandstorm was fast approaching, heading right for her.

And just like in the desert, there was no shelter to hide behind.

* * *

Harry stood before the ornately carved door, hands trembling at his sides as he contemplated bolting for the tenth time in half as many minutes.

His eyes were affixed to the golden nameplate centered before him, reflecting his green gaze back in all its conflicted glory. The irony of his cowardice wasn't lost on him. That he had an easier time accepting the existence of fucking _vampires_ than facing the man situated beyond the barrier.

He shook his head, glancing away at last, raising his arm and knocking softly before his nerve failed him entirely.

“Come in.”

His chest ached terribly at the familiar timbre and all the memories it invoked. He braced his shoulders and opened the door, feet remaining firmly planted beyond the threshold of the hallway.

Papers shuffled softly. “Can I help–”

The man seated across the office gazed up, eyes brimming wide behind rectangular lenses, light glinting off the wire frame. He dropped the pen to a stack of papers situated before him, mouth hanging wide.

“Harry?”

Harry swallowed lightly, stepping forward at last. “Hello, Remus.”

Remus stood swiftly, nearly toppling the chair in his haste, pulling his glasses away and carelessly dropping them to the desk, rounding the obstruction in a few paces.

“Is it… is it really you?”

Harry nodded shortly, stepping further in and closing the door at his back. “It’s me.”

His shoulders loosened as the man’s jovial laughter filled the room, followed by his rapid footfalls as he crossed the floor and pulled Harry into a tight embrace.

“It’s… I can’t tell you how much I…” He shook his head, gripping Harry’s biceps tight and pulling back. “I’ve missed you, Harry.”

Harry’s throat felt swollen, voice strained on departure. “I’ve missed you, too.”

Remus nodded, clapping him on the shoulder, hand lingering in place as though attempting to keep Harry rooted to the spot.

“Ron told me he was searching for you. I hope you don’t mind I gave him your contact. You said to share it in the event of dire circumstances and I thought–”

“It’s alright, Remus. I’m glad you told him.” Harry’s eyes lowered with the weight of his shame. “I should have returned sooner. It shouldn’t have taken a tragedy to bring me back.”

"You're home. That's what matters." Remus's gaze gleamed in the sunlight, hand tightening on Harry's shoulder. " _All_ that matters.”

A tense beat passed. Harry stepped away first, prompting the man's arm to drop. He turned his head and caught sight of the large plaque on the wall, centered between a plethora of treasures– certificates and awards, mounted and framed fossilized specimens and geological photographs, a dizzying representation of a scholar's life.

“So, you’re the Head of the Archaeology Department now?”

Remus laughed softly, eyes following the direction of Harry’s gaze. “The previous Head had to retire quite suddenly due to health complications, they were a bit desperate to find his replacement and settled on me.”

“Don’t be modest. You’re the most brilliant employee the Natural History Museum has ever had.”

His answering smile was tinged with a familiar sadness, one that Harry had grown so accustomed to seeing upon the man’s face he hardly recognized him without it.

“That particular honor rests with your mother.” He met Harry’s eye. “But I appreciate the kind words, nonetheless.”

Another heavy beat followed before Remus rocked back on his heels, gesturing to his desk.

“Here, sit, tell me everything you’ve been up to. I’ve been dying to hear about California.” He crossed the room and pulled out his chair, lowering slowly, blinking as he caught sight of Harry’s guarded expression from across the room. “Oh. Alright.” He sank down the rest of the way. “How about what you’ve been up to since you got back?”

Harry glanced to the windows. Remus arched a brow.

“Christ, that bad, huh?”

Harry nodded, facing forward once more. “You know me, never a dull moment.”

Remus chuckled lowly, palms pressing flat to the wood. “That’s what Sirius always–” He blinked, jaw working silently. “Sorry. I…” He shook his head, carding a hand through his sandy hair and gesturing to the opposite chair. “Please, Harry, take a seat or you’ll give an old man a neck cramp.”

Harry couldn't contain his answering smirk, crossing the room with tentative steps and sitting in the designated chair, gripping the armrests tightly.

Only to lean forward, memory sparking.

“Oh, before I forget, Mione asked me to give you this.”

He reached into his vest and extracted the vial, sliding it across the glossy desktop. Remus tilted his head, reaching forward and taking the glass between his thumb and forefinger, holding it before the light.

“What is it?”

Harry pressed back once more, ankles crossing. “No idea. You know her, probably something relating to one of her projects.”

He allowed his gaze to roam the papers scattering the workspace, trying to convince his shriveling heart it wasn’t a total lie. Hermione didn’t tell him what the vial contained and he didn’t push her on the subject. It seemed too great a step to start holding each other accountable for the truth. Especially when he harbored so many secrets of his own.

Remus didn’t seem to notice the direction of Harry’s thoughts, absorbed in the item at hand. “That’s our girl, only content if she’s buried beneath three miles of work.” He brought the sample closer, turning it over in his hand. “Seems to be a sediment sample of some kind. Though the consistency appears almost like…” He shook his head, leaning back and carefully setting it aside. “She wants me to run the sample through the lab, I presume?”

“Yes. She said you have faster turnaround.”

He rested his elbows on the desk, fingers steepling before his chin. "Since I don't have a case to assign it I can't give it priority, but I‘ll send a note as soon as the results are in."

Harry nodded.

And then silence fell upon the room like a heavy blanket, pressing hard upon their shoulders. Until at last Remus spoke, voice low and measured, causing Harry’s ears to prick and his shoulder blades to tighten.

“Harry.” He held his gaze with unshakable intensity. “Am I allowed to ask, what happened to your eye?”

Harry fought to control his visage, blunt nails pressing the underside of the armrests until they threatened to split. “Boxing mishap. There was glass on the mat. Didn’t see it until it was wedged firmly in my face.”

Remus paled, hands dropping. “Then it’s a miracle your eye survived at all. Why didn’t you call?”

Harry effortlessly fell onto his old standby. "It looks far worse than it is. I was in and out of the hospital in a day, the stitches were out in a week."

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose, as though the information caused him acute pain as well as distress. “At least you’re home in one piece.” He sighed deeply, slowly lowering his hand and lifting his chin. “So, I take it you’re helping with the search?”

Harry felt his stomach clench anew, safely past Scylla and onto Charybdis. “Trying to. Though it seems every time we make headway in one direction something steers us in another.”

“How long have you been back?”

He shifted uncomfortably, clutching the armrests until the backing groaned beneath his fingers. “Wednesday afternoon.”

He watched as the warm brown eyes situated across the desk filled first with hurt, then confusion.

“Have you made progress since then?”

Harry opened and closed his mouth, settling on the closest truth he could fully grasp. “Nothing that directly relates to Gin. Not yet.”

Remus leaned back, shoulders dropping. “I spoke with Arthur on Monday. I try and stay apprised of the search without imposing on them. I know Molly’s been very active with the church. She seems to be doing much better than last time.”

“She thinks Gin’s alive. They all do. And they’ll keep on thinking it until we find hard evidence proving otherwise.”

Harry watched as Remus glanced to the desk, a bit too sharply.

“You think she’s dead.”

Remus shook his head, gaze darting back up and complexion waning further. “Of course not, I would never say such a thing–”

“You don’t have to. I can see it in your eyes.”

His jaw clenched. “I don't think she’s dead.” He flattened his palms along the wood, as though bracing himself. “But I _do_ think two weeks is a very long time to be missing, in New York City no less.”

Harry nodded, fingers loosening from the chair, leaving indentations in their wake. “I thought the same thing when I first returned.”

Remus watched him carefully, sunlight dancing across his face and the paneling at his back as a beam of sunlight broke apart. "And now?"

Harry took a deep breath, holding it in until his chest burned with a fire he both feared and craved. “Now, I’m trying to keep an open mind.”

He pulled free from the man’s gaze, glancing to the window for reprieve, only for his eyes to get caught halfway there by the inset bookcase stretching from floor to ceiling at their side.

He blinked, transfixed. Remus shifted.

“What is it, Harry?”

Harry fought to keep his voice and expression neutral as his eyes rapidly flickered over the varied titles, wondering if it was possible...

“Grimmauld’s library is still in boxes, I haven’t had time to sort the upstairs.”

Remus tilted his head, blinking slowly and following Harry’s steady gaze. “Would you… like to borrow a book?”

“If you don’t mind, there’s not much in the way of distraction there.”

He lifted a hand, gesturing to the shelf. “Please, help yourself. You still read before bed?”

Harry pushed swiftly to his feet, muscles burning with anticipation as they uncoiled at last. “Not in a long time. But perhaps it will help me get some actual rest.”

He crossed to the wall, well aware the other man’s eyes remained fixed firmly upon him.

“It’s not an easy house to sleep in,” Remus agreed. “ _Or_ be awake in. I was amazed Sirius decided to live there after Walburga died.”

Harry stopped before the shelves, fingertips tracing the spines. “He was always a glutton for punishment.”

A tense pause. Remus released a low sigh.

“That he was.”

Harry’s heart skipped as a particular binding came into view, sandwiched between two short and fat tomes. His shoulders stiffened as his fingers touched the spine, pinching the free edge and pulling it forward.

Remus leaned back, smiling. “Reminds me of when you were a boy, obsessed with Camelot and dragons.”

Harry held the book in both hands, gazing down at the gold lettering along the leather cover.

_Mythical Beasts of the Ancient World, Illustrated Guide_

He wets his lips, eyes gleaming. “A little fantasy might help me unwind.”

Remus drummed his fingers along the corner of the desk. "Then I feel I should warn you, nothing in my collection is fiction. Not for entertainment purposes, anyway. Everything's written from an archaeological and scientific standpoint."

Harry lifted his chin, gripping the book until it threatened to bend. “Even better.”

Remus stood, hovering in place for a solid beat before edging closer, every step making Harry's spine go straighter and stiffer until he was certain he'd break apart with the next touch.

“Harry, is everything alright?”

He whipped his head around, brow raised as Remus stopped at his side, eyes downturned in a look of abject devotion and misery, the duality causing Harry’s shoulder to erupt with flame.

“Aside from Ginevra, of course.”

Harry dropped the book to his side, other hand balled tight to hide the tremor. “As alright as can be expected.”

Remus searched his gaze. “It’s just that… you seem… _different_.” He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck and sagging into the bookcase. “I’m doing a terrible job at this, aren’t I? I’ve never been good with words unless I’m describing bone fragments or stratum evolution.”

The corner of Harry’s lips turned up. “You’re doing a fine job, Remus. And I assure you, besides my concern for Ginny, I’m fine.”

Remus watched him for a short eternity more, just long to enough to ensure Harry felt inescapable guilt sear a path through his most vital organs like acidic bile.

“It’s good to have you home, Harry.”

Harry swallowed thickly, throat tightening. “So people keep telling me.”

“It bears repeating.”

He smiled, forcing his hand to relax and grip the edge of the shelf instead. “You want to hug me again, don’t you?”

“Desperately.”

He laughed fully as the man surged forward without further invitation, pulling him into another bone-crushing embrace that left them both swaying in place.

After several moments Harry realized Remus had no plans of letting him go any time soon. Rather than twist his way free, he accepted his fate, embracing it fully and dropping his forehead against the man’s narrow shoulder.

Wondering when the next bomb would drop.

* * *

Hermione inhaled long and deep, air sweet on the back of her tongue, sun warm on her skin. She started down the hallway, sheer curtains blowing in the gentle breeze, daylight spilling in from the open windows, heating the tiles against her bare feet.

She continued her path ahead, pushing the pale fabric aside as it washed her vision with white, obscuring her view of the end of the corridor.

Of the door.

Bright red and glossy. Mesmerizing.

She continued to journey forward, sunlight cutting into her gaze, another curtain blowing into her path. She pushed it aside, standing before the barrier at last. It radiated a powerful current, humming along the floor, radiating through her soles and calves and knees and thighs, pooling warmth at her center. She blinked, confused and frozen, and peered past her white gauzy dress to the floor at her feet, feeling something damp against her toes.

Her heart lurched as water poured out from the crack beneath the door in a powerful torrent, filling the hallway in a rapid rush. Soon her ankles were fully submerged, the hum echoing through her head at deafening volumes, overtaking the terror-filled scream trapped within her mind as the water reached her knees.

And then it changed color.

The flood emitting from beyond the door was stained a deep red, mixing with the river already hovering at her hips, turning the water pink, then ruby, then crimson.

It was at her elbows now. She tried desperately to move her feet but only succeed in swinging her arms. She reached for the only item within grasp.

The knob.

And wrenched the door wide.

Unleashing a tidal wave upon her head.

She screamed at last, words smothered by the ocean of blood that swept her out to sea, sucking her through the open doorway and into the red abyss.

Hermione gasped for breath, snapping upright so quickly her vision swam.

She pressed a hand to her chest, panting heavily, feeling the sweat cool along her forehead and neck. She peered around the darkness, unsure of her surroundings for a jolting beat. But her eyes affixed to the opposite wall a moment later, moonlight glinting off gold frames, revealing a familiar pair of maps.

She fell asleep in her office.

She never slept in her office.

She lurched forward, swinging her legs over the side of the cushion and springing her feet, staggering down the hallway like a drunkard, mind still heavy with sleep, nerves still rattled by the remnants of an already forgotten dream.

“Papa?” She opened his door, peering into the moonlit room with bated breath, sagging against the frame as his steady breathing met her ears a stuttered beat later.

She closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead, barely recalling putting him to bed.

She stepped into the hall and softly closed his door before embarking for the kitchen, turning on lights as she went. She grabbed the kettle off the stove and trudged to the sink, steps weighed by fatigue, her impromptu nap seeming to do more damage than rejuvenation. She reached for the faucet handle but drew up short as a soft tapping filled the room, drawing her focus to the French doors.

Her gaze lowered to the ground as a bright flash of movement caught her eye. She shook her head anew, crossing the tiles and turning the lock, opening the door wide enough for the feline to slip through, body pressing so narrow he seemed to defy the laws of physics.

He raised his nose in the air, sniffing haughtily, glowing eyes slitting thin as he directed the full force of his displeasure upon her. She wet her lips, mouth dry.

“Sorry, Crooks.” She shut the door, locking it once more. “I don’t remember letting you out.”

_I don’t even remember arriving home from the Museum…_

She paced to the stove, leaning against it.

Wonderful. Yet another terrifying development to contend with.

_This is how it starts…_

_Misplaced keys. Open windows. Forgotten dates and appointments. Tiny lapses in the day that grow closer and wider and–_

She closed her eyes, nails raking across her scalp.

_It’s thought to be hereditary…_

She forced her lids open, wiping at the corners, refusing to pay the notion any more focus. If she had it, she had it. There was nothing to be done either way.

She turned on the faucet with a sharp tug, jamming the kettle beneath the stream, tongue pressing the roof of her mouth as she fought to keep her rising emotions at bay, only for her thoughts to stutter on a single image. The heart of all the ensuing madness.

The damn jar.

She shook her head, turning the water off and the stove on, heart leaping in time to the _click click click_ of the gas burner as the flame erupted to life, dancing before her eyes as she slid the kettle atop.

She emerged into her office thirty seconds later, flicking on the desk lamp and pacing to her phone in the corner, picking up the receiver and wedging her finger in the rotary dial.

Only to draw up short.

_Shit._

_Is the phone at Grimmauld still connected?_

Even more pertinent…

_Do I still remember the number?_

She gnawed at her lip, lids squeezing tight as the dial tone thrummed loudly in her ear. Worse yet, Grimmauld was wired to a party line with the entire street, about eight estates total. Perhaps not the best medium to discuss stolen artifacts, large scale crime rings and dead bodies.

She sighed in frustration, slamming the phone onto the cradle.

When a knock sounded at the front door.

She jumped, the noise uprooting her. She’d been so far gone inside her own mind she'd forgotten there was an outside world. But there was only one person it could be at this hour. Her heart bound as quickly as her footsteps, relief turning her weightless.

Crookshanks braced his paws against the entry rug, back arching high as he hissed with a mighty roar, an impressive tribute to his jungle ancestors. But she had no time for such antics, edging him aside with her toes as she turned the deadbolt and opened the door.

“Well, he still hasn’t warmed up to y–”

She fell silent, heart stopping.

For it wasn’t Harry standing before her.

Not even close.

“Oh, apologies, I…”

She trailed off as a sudden, inescapable fever burned its way across her neck and cheeks, giving away her innermost thoughts as she stared upon the handsome stranger standing on her doorstep. Broad shoulders stretched from end to end of the frame, dark hair swept back in a pristine wave, tinged blue in the moonlight.

“Good evening, Ms. Granger.”

His accent was unexpected. British, measured and deep.

She tilted her head, clutching the knob until the brass indented her palm. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

His answering smile gleamed bright, straight and inviting, even as his eyes turned soft as smoke.

“Not yet.”

Her heart thumped erratically, blood leaving her head in a powerful rush and pooling at her feet, locking her heels in place.

“Please, allow me to introduce myself.” He wet his lips, leaning in just the tiniest fraction, every movement slow and precise. “My name is Tom Riddle.”

His pupils expanded, her reflection staring back at her from the center of his predatory gaze. “And I’ve been looking for you.”


	4. The Divine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready for some of those sketchy af translations I promised? I’m here to deliver, baby ;D

_“A pretty sight, a lady with a book.”_  
~ Shirley Jackson, We Have Always Lived in the Castle  
.   .   .

Tom made his way along the east gate of the Park. Pedestrians cleared a path for him as he progressed down the sidewalk, a subconscious gesture born of instinctual fear. Prey sensing a predator in the tall grass, changing their course as though they had any hope of evading him.

But they were in luck. He wasn’t looking for dinner. At least not yet. No, right now he had far more pressing matters to attend to.

The air crackled along his skin, still charged with supernatural energy that left his fangs aching, igniting a deep hunger in the very marrow of his bones. But the sensation eluded him. It wasn't blood he craved. Nor flesh. Not anything he could assign a name to. And the mystery frustrated him beyond belief.

No matter. He knew it had to be connected to the relic. There was no other logical explanation to be had. Which only motivated him to find it sooner. He tipped his head back, inhaling deeply, holding it in his lungs. Avery’s scent was heavy in the air. Emanating from somewhere centered within the park, interwoven with the faint tinge of something _else_. Something dark and wild. Something he didn't recognize but was drawn to nonetheless.

He set his jaw, coming to a stop. The sidewalk was mostly cleared, the only remaining occupants a young couple who eyed him warily, stopping in their tracks and crossing the street to avoid his path, not bothering to check for oncoming traffic. A car honked manically, swerving around their huddled figures and narrowly missing a collision. Tom shook his head, astounded by the frailty of the human condition. He turned to face the gate once more, backing up a few paces and leaping the rod iron posts in a single bound.

He landed deftly on the other side, crouching low, one hand bracing the grass before glancing his surroundings, standing gracefully and straightening his coat. The electrical current continued to dance along his skin, more powerful than before. Closer to the source, but not quite upon it.

He pushed on, dismissing the unnerving sensation in lieu of tracking his missing henchman. He’d spent the bulk of the previous evening consumed with the chaos that overcame the streets. It had taken nine hours for the power to come back on. The humans were an utter mess during the interim, running around the dark streets like chickens with their fucking heads cut off.

Most were simply too stupid to realize the danger they were putting themselves in the direct path of, but a select few used the opportunity to subvert local authorities and go on half-cocked crime sprees. While police and emergency services were preoccupied with major accidents and robberies, Tom spent the night stopping over two dozen attempted rapes and murders in the underappreciated parts of his city.

He didn’t give a toss about human on human violence. They maimed and killed each other constantly and he was content to leave them to their own devices. But altogether they comprised the majority of the population and it was his job to maintain balance in his Territory. An overabundance of crime and murder in one night would disrupt social and economic structures alike. And on the most basic level, it would fuck with the food chain.

There were a great many factors to consider. Far more than met the eye. But Tom understood the interconnective tissues comprising the living beast that was New York City. It was why he was awarded the most coveted Territory in America. The Jewel of the West.

Though at the moment, it most closely resembled a radioactive cesspool.

He emerged from the treeline, glancing around the darkness with ease, his nocturnal vision catching every swaying branch and flickering leaf. He continued to cut a path directly through the center of the Park, following the swelling cloud of Avery’s scent. He passed a cluster of evening primrose, their blooming fragrance overpowering his senses for several beats, prompting him to stop in the middle of the trail and tip his head back, closing his eyes and expelling the air from his lungs as he waited for the blood to filter back to the top.

Avery’s scent was easy for him to discern, laced as it was with his own, but there was human blood on the wind as well. He opened his eyes, detecting at least five different sources, some old, some new. Not surprising, considering his location. Still, a bit too much bloodshed for comfort, given the current circumstances.

He heard the human clomping after him several minutes ago, most likely a night watchman, given the fact he possessed the subtlety of a wrecking ball. Tom picked up the irregular heartbeat from across the Park, strained beneath mounds of fat and cholesterol no doubt. He didn’t deviate his path for his uninvited guest, continuing forward at a brisk and even pace as the bright spotlight exploded across his back.

“Hey! You there!”

Tom narrowed his gaze, searching the dark treeline ahead. A set of glowing eyes watched him from a bush. The scent was growing stronger.

“Stop!”

The creature scurried away, darting up a nearby tree, disturbed by the panting voice steadily gaining volume up the path. The man started to jog, joints popping loudly, inducing an automatic cringe Tom was helpless to suppress. Humans decayed so very quickly. The memories of his own mortality were faded, intangible. He sometimes found his mind drifting, wondering what it was like to feel yourself dying, to look in the mirror and watch the gradual breakdown of your own body while it was still alive.

He slowed his pace, the watchman panting so heavily he sounded on the verge of a massive coronary. Tom didn’t have time to deal with another body. He’d had his fun and fill last night dealing with the city’s dumbest criminals. Better to nip this nuisance in the bud before it blossomed into yet another crime scene.

He came to an abrupt halt, turning around, shielding his face from the blinding beam. The guard held the flashlight aloft in one hand and his belt in the other, the waistline of his trousers drooping with every labored step. He stopped before Tom at last, face flush and glistening.

“ _Stop_ right there! How did you–”

Tom tore the flashlight from his grasp and crushed it in his grip, glass shattering in every direction as the metal bent, darkness descending upon them. The watchman gasped, staggering back.

Tom arched a dark brow, tossing the deformed flashlight aside. "Don't scream."

The bumbling fool’s jaw parted wide, his shrill scream tearing through the night, disrupting a flutter of sparrows from a neighboring tree.

Tom rolled his eyes and grabbed the hysterical idiot by the throat, dragging him forward and lifting him onto his toes until they were eye level. The watchman opened and closed his mouth like a gaping fish, unable to take a breath, eyes bulging and veins throbbing as the blood collected in his skull.

Tom tilted his head, holding his stare, waiting until he saw the lights dim in the depths of the human’s terrified gaze, triggering the rest of the rotund body to fall lax.

“You never saw me.”

The guard blinked slowly, dazed. Tom watched as the command sank into the deepest layer of his psyche before releasing him. The guard gasped and sputtered, swaying heavily on his feet as he pulled at his collar. Tom cast a bored glance at their surroundings, searching out possible witnesses but spotting only nocturnal wildlife.

“Leave.”

The watchman blinked several times, staggering back, coughing into his fist as he regained his breath before turning on his heal and starting forward with a slow and measured gait. Tom followed suit, continuing in the direction he’d originally been heading. Towards the Pond. He tilted his head, eyeing the east gate in the distance. The scent was leading him towards 60th Street.

Avery had been on his way to the Penthouse.

Tom emerged from the path, the glittering black water coming into view. He started across the bridge, footsteps echoing off the wood beams, sending more creatures scurrying in every direction through the trees beyond. Their faint footsteps drew his focus, another sight quickly emerging from the shadows.

Yellow-dyed rope.

Another outstanding problem to deal with. The recent string of kidnappings was starting to draw attention, the wrong kind of attention. He'd thought nothing of the disappearances. At first. Until high-profile heirs and heiresses started appearing on the front page of the Herald. The crimes were on everyone’s radar, so they were now on his radar. Which was just as well.

No one stole from his Territory.

The humans were worthless cattle, but they were _his_ worthless cattle. Tom had vested interest in all of his possessions, regardless of their value. To take without asking was a deep affront that simply _would not_ do. He intended to suss out the culprit. And he intended to punish them.

But first, he had to find the goddamn relic.

He reached the end of the bridge, deftly leaping the crime scene in a single bound, sparing the patch of grass a parting glance. Avery’s scent was faint, easily overpowered by a young female. The victim, to be assumed. The grass was still saturated with blood and sweat, her final moments of terror palpable.

He dismissed the observation without sentiment, another odor pulling his focus, propelling his feet forward. He emerged into the dense thicket. The canopy was heavy, blocking the moonlight and casting the ground in undulating shadows. There was a strong aroma of Avery’s blood in the grass. Along with a human.

And something else.

His fists tightened as he crunched through dead leaves and twigs, slowing between a circular cluster of trees where the bizarre amalgamation of scents seemed most concentrated. He lowered to his haunches, pressing his palm flat to the soil, feeling the faint hum emitted from the earth below. It radiated through his arm and into his chest, helping clear his mind and senses as he closed his eyes and inhaled once more, holding the breath in his lungs until they burned.

His gaze snapped open, fingers curling, gathering a clump of grass.

 _No_.

He rose swiftly, legs stiff and eyes hard-set, gleaming like dagger points.

_Surely not._

But the scent was unmistakable.

It had been decades since such a creature set foot on the island.

He wiped his palms clean, examining the ground more closely, the signs of a two-person struggle easily discernible in the tracks and trenches marring the dirt. But his inspection was interrupted as a gentle breeze blew past, rattling the leaves and bending the overgrown weeds, carrying with it the dark decay of death.

He went rigid, senses overwhelmed by the saturating scent of Avery’s blood.

He turned on his heel, exiting the narrow clearing and traversing the rough terrain once more, eyes fixed ahead, moving against the wind, searching out the source. The answer to this bizarre and frustrating puzzle. The trees ended abruptly, the earth giving way to a steep decline, spitting out into a grassy clearing with a tall gazebo at its center. The moonlight reflected off metal scaffolding covering its side.

The scent was overwhelming, filling the air so completely Tom half expected to glimpse a toxic cloud hovering above the land. But he didn’t have to set another foot forward to see the pool of black staining the ground below, glistening like morning dew across each blade of grass. A line of ink trailed up the side of the hill.

Drag marks.

His hackles rose, gums throbbing as he followed the path, obvious as a chainsaw marking its destruction. He didn’t scent another of his kind. Nor did he expect to. A vampire would never slay one of their own in a such a public venue. Nor would they leave a blatant path of breadcrumbs for Tom to follow. Not even _She_ was reckless enough to engage in such suicidal behavior.

But no human could have possibly overpowered Avery on their own. Something underhanded was clearly at play. And She certainly had no qualms subverting the Treaty for her own gain, if history was anything to go by. Her scent may not be on the leaves and branches but the situation positively reeked of her meddlesome bullshite. What other explanation could there be? No one else knew of the artifact. No one else had cause to intercept Avery.

_Unless there are other interested parties._

He wet his lips.

_Perhaps there’s something He didn’t tell me._

Tom shook his head, casting the errant ponderings aside as he followed the scent towards the gate, emerging onto a gravel trail and passing the watchman from earlier. The guard walked directly past without batting an eye, glassy stare fixed blankly ahead, coming into focus only after Tom left his line of sight.

Tom paid the frail creature no mind, focus entirely devoted to the waning scent of his deceased progeny. He reached the rod iron barrier at last, gripping the posts and hoisting himself over the top with ease, landing on the sidewalk with a soft thump, causing a young man heading in the opposite direction to glance over his shoulder in surprise, blinking like a deer in the headlights before scurrying around the corner. Tom followed the last tendrils of blood on the wind to the curb, the smell finally dissipating. He studied the tire marks along the pavement.

The body was loaded into a vehicle.

He tipped his head back, fixing his stare upon the bright moon above, his longtime companion and confidante. She was a pulsating beacon, whispering softly across an endless expanse of time and space.

But he understood her warning just the same.

Someone had breached his city's walls, violating a centuries-old contract by killing one of his own.

And Tom had a burning suspicion he knew the mastermind behind it all.

_She wants a war?_

His eyes turned molten, a churning river of rage and bloodlust.

_I’ll give her a war._

He gazed into the street, lifting his arm and watching with idle detachment as a line of cabs raced to his position, honking and swerving as they attempted to outmaneuver each other. He stepped back as a yellow taxi won the race, screeching to a halt along the curb. He reached for the handle as the driver spoke through the open window, elbow resting upon the frame.

“Where to, Sir?”

Tom opened the door, unbuttoning the front of his tailored jacket as he slid into the backseat.

“The Met.”

* * *

The car pulled to a slow stop, the interlocking gate casting a long shadow over the interior of the cab.

Lavender leaned forward, hands curling over the edge of the seat. “You sure this is the right address?”

The driver tapped his fingers along the wheel. “65th and Park. This is the address you gave me, doll.”

She blinked slowly, transfixed by the sprawling structure ahead. “I just… didn’t expect… _this_.”

“Did you expect a gate? Because Old Betty ain’t too good at driving through ‘em.” He rubbed a hand along the dashboard, palm coming away with a film of dust.

She awoke from her stupor, leaning back and scrambling for her satin clutch. “Oh, yes, hold on.”

She popped open the pearl-tipped clasp, searching through the darkness for the ivory calling card. The sharp corner of the cardstock sliced into her thumb, eliciting a hiss. She narrowed her eyes, grabbing the small slip of paper and pulling it free, heart skipping as she read the black print across the front and the finely handwritten cursive just beneath.

She took a steadying breath, rolling down the window and peering out at the brass intercom centered between two flowering bushes. “Can you pull a bit closer? I can’t reach the button.”

“Sorry, doll, any closer and I’ll scratch the paint.”

She huffed, scooting to the edge of the seat and opening the door, carefully climbing out and crossing the pavement to the box. She leaned down, pressing the square button and jolting when static erupted to life all around her.

“ _Good Evening_.” The voice was choppy but decidedly feminine. “ _Welcome to Palais au Clair de Lune. How may we assist you?_ ”

The melodic French accent was deeply intimidating. Lavender felt like a child playing dress up in her mother’s gown and heels. Her make-up felt heavy and the rhinestones in her headband felt cheap.

She leaned over once more, speaking directly into the box as though the woman was inside it. “Oh, um, I’m here to visit–” She blinked, remembering the instructions the mysterious stranger had given her. “I… I mean, I’m…”

She glanced to the card in her hand, fingers trembling so badly the scrap of paper slipped out of her grasp, catching the wind and lodging somewhere in the bushes.

“Crap!”

_“I’m sorry, Madam, I don’t think we can be of assistance.”_

She shook her head, leaning forward and batting aside leaves, desperately searching for the flash of white. "No, I…" She wet her lips, snatching the paper free with a thrill of victory and reading the handwritten word aloud, voice hitched. "Divus!"

Her pulse stuttered as the intercom went dead, the static ending all at once, an eerie bubble of silence encasing her. She swallowed thickly, crumpling the card in her palm as she turned to face the cab, shoulders heavy with defeat and face burning with embarrassment.

The box clicked. She spun on her heel, nearly losing her balance as the static exploded to life a second time.

_“Welcome to Le Palais, Mademoiselle. We are delighted to have you.”_

The gate buzzed loudly, jolting her before slowly parting down the center, revealing the full splendor of the property beyond. She gazed forward, eyes wide and gleaming.

“Thank you.”

But the intercom was already off. The driver peered through the window, eyeing her speculatively.

“So this is how the other side lives, huh?”

She bit her lip, shifting awkwardly. “I wouldn’t know.”

He chuckled, voice deep and scratchy, winking over his shoulder as he put the transmission into gear. “Looks like you’ll find out tonight. Hop on in, I’ll drop you at the front.”

She nodded stiffly, still feeling obscenely out of place as she slipped into the backseat and closed the door, clutching the handle to steady her nerves as the taxi rolled forward. They progressed along a long circular drive, a massive fountain at its center, equipped with inset lighting that reflected blue waves onto the pavement and decorative columns ahead.

She squirmed anew as they stopped before the entrance, transfixed by the white marble steps leading to an imposing pair of gold filigree doors. Two men were situated on either side, well-suited and still as statues. She released her breath in a rush, prompting the driver to glance into the rearview mirror, brow raised.

“You alright?”

She cleared her throat, glancing away from the window and gripping her clutch with both hands. “Yes. How much do I owe you?”

“A dollar forty.”

She nodded tightly, opening her purse and searching for her billfold. Her fingertips fumbled with the coins at the bottom, a Buffalo nickel flying free and falling to the dark floorboard. She cursed low, leaning over to paw blindly for it, flushing as she heard the driver sigh.

“It’s alright, doll. Just give me whatever’s in your hand.”

She wet her lips, cheeks aflame and nerves strung taut. “Thank you.”

He held out a palm, accepting the cluster of coins she placed in the center. “Have a good evening, sweetheart.”

A hissing sigh escaped her lips, the pressure in her chest dissipating even as her shoulders drew tight. She gripped the handle once more, pulling it slowly, reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the backseat.

“You as well,” she offered softly, sliding out with as much poise and grace as her trembling limbs would allow. She gently closed the door and stepped back to gaze upon the imposing structure towering above, filling the dark skyline and blotting out the moon and stars.

“Hey.”

She jolted, gaze flickering to the cab. The driver rested his arm on the window frame, holding her gaze steady.

“Be careful, kid. Pretty young things keep turning up missing or dead– even in neighborhoods like this.”

His tone was flippant but the intensity of his expression gave her pause. She blinked, Parvati’s visage flashing before her mind’s eye. The phantom remnants of their fight came rushing back all at once, souring her stomach.

She pushed her unease aside, lifting her chin. “I know.”

He tipped his head in silent farewell, tucking his arm back inside and pulling forward, following the curve of the drive as he circled back to the gates. Lavender took a deep breath, inhaling smoke exhaust and doubling over, coughing indelicately. She shook her head, rising to her full height and peering nervously at the attendants standing guard.

_Off to a great start._

The gates began to close, the motor humming as the taxi pulled back onto the main road. She watched it turn the corner and disappear from sight, taking something of herself with it. But she squared her shoulders just the same, plastering on a smile as she made her way forward, carefully navigating the glossy steps in her heels, eyes fixed downward, each movement slow and measured.

_Don’t fall don’t fall don’t fall..._

She made it to the top level, laughing to herself in relief, only to sober as she lifted her head. The men continued to stare forward blankly, expressions frozen with mannequin repose. They reminded her of the wax sculptures she and Parvati saw at Madame Tussauds. The memory of the excursion served to both calm and rattle her further. They’d spent hours wandering the darkened halls, admiring the figures and waiting for the crowds to clear before posing lewdly with each, trying to force the other to laugh first. She’d never before felt such joy, such happiness and freedom. It was undoubtedly one of her greatest memories.

And now it merely served as a painful reminder.

She was pulled abruptly from her musings as the men sprang to life at the same moment, turning swiftly inward and each grabbing a handle, pulling the double doors wide. She gasped, stepping back and nearly toppling down the stairs, staggering forward and glancing between them with wide eyes, wondering if they would have simply let her fall and crack her head open on the pavement below. She glared, opening her mouth to ask as much when she caught sight of the entryway beyond.

And all remaining thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind.

Her jaw snapped shut with an audible click, heartbeat echoing through her ears as she stepped forward, tentatively crossing the threshold as an icy sweat erupted along her neck and spine.

_How the other side lives indeed._

The men both bowed low as she passed. She didn’t spare them a glance, unable to tear her eyes away from the glittering opulence before her. “Thank you,” she muttered as an afterthought, already too far away to be heard.

She tried to keep her steps light and measured, but the strike of her heel against the marble brought to mind a horse clopping through a stable. She bit her lip, eyes roaming the crystal-strewn ceiling, gaze lowering only to ensure she didn't collide with a pillar. A high counter was situated at the other end of the lobby, a young woman standing behind it, blonde hair pulled back in a sleek bun and lips painted a cherry red. She was utterly radiant, even in uniform, smiling as their eyes met.

“Good evening, Mademoiselle. We are honored to host you.”

Lavender fought the urge to fidget with her dress, her hair, feeling utterly foolish for thinking she could ever appear as anything more than a hooker from the slums. But she forced her feet forward, committed to seeing this evening through, for better or worse. She couldn’t bear going home and facing Parvati in such a state. She’d never live it down.

So she stopped before the counter, gathering every ounce of strength left within to keep her chin held high and smile firmly pinned. “Good evening.”

The woman’s smile deepened, head tipping just a fraction as she lifted her arm and gestured to the far wall. “Lord Voltaire is awaiting your company on the eighth floor. Alberto will escort you up.”

Lavender glanced to the side, spotting a handsome young man in uniform, hands folded behind his back as he nodded in greeting. She swallowed thickly, twisting her clutch. "Oh… alright." And then blinked as the woman dipped into a makeshift curtsy, unsure how to respond. She settled for nodding her appreciation, fighting to mask her overwhelming sense of unease, amazed they hadn’t thrown her out yet.

She crossed the marble to the man, breathing a sigh of relief when he smiled, far more expressive than the attendants at the door.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle. Suivez–moi, s’il vous plaît.”

Her relief flew out the window like a frantic bird.

_Oh god._

She blinked rapidly, fever sizzling through her veins, overtaking her pale complexion. But he didn’t seem to expect a response, merely bowing at the waist before rising swiftly and turning gracefully on his heal, leading her down an arched hallway to a bank of elevators. She followed with bated breath, raiding her mental stores for even a lick of French.

_Baguette… that means bread, right?_

She closed her eyes as he pressed a button on the wall.

_For the love of God… don't speak, idiot._

The center doors chimed, gliding smoothly and silently open to unveil a gold plated interior. She followed him in, staring at her own harried reflection for several beats before glancing away, gripping the railing at her back with both hands, taking comfort in the cool metal against her heated palms. She watched as he stepped forward and inserted a key into a narrow slot, something behind the panel clicking loudly as the doors slid shut. Then he pressed a button near the top, all of them identical, unlabeled, and the car began to rise.

She pressed back into the wall, biting her tongue and staring forlornly at the mirrored ceiling, counting each frantic heartbeat as they rapidly ascended. Her ears popped and knees quaked. She’d only ridden in a handful of elevators throughout her life and detested each one more than the last. Such contraptions were nothing but death traps. Then again, anything pertaining to heights was a death trap in her opinion. However, this was the first high rise she’d ever set foot inside, and she wasn’t keen on taking the stairs all the way to the top. Certainly not in _these_ shoes.

So she gripped the rail tighter, still unable to wrap her mind around her current circumstances. Was she really standing here? Wherever the hell _here_ was...

Their ascent finally slowed, coming to a smooth stop. Their arrival was nearly imperceptible except for the faint hum of shifting gears outside the car. She held her breath as the doors opened, giving way to a dimly lit hallway, rich burgundy carpeting leading to a single door at the end. The attendant stepped into the corridor and lifted an arm, pressing it to the metal frame to prevent the doors’ closing. He met her eye once more, expression patient and expectant.

“Bonne soirée, Mademoiselle.”

She released a slow breath, forcing her knees to bend and heels to trudge forward. He bowed as she passed, scrambling her thoughts yet again before gracefully unfolding himself and stepping back into the car. He reached for the bottom button and her lips parted on instinct.

“Wait!”

He blinked, hand frozen mid-air. She flushed brightly, shifting from foot to foot and she mindlessly traced the seam of her clutch.

_Please don’t leave me._

She shook her head at the childish plea, ashamed of her own juvenile reaction.

_What’s gotten into you?_

She wet her lips, forcing her voice to remain calm and measured. “Thank you.”

He blinked again, smiling this time, teeth white and gleaming. But the sentiment didn’t reach his eyes.

“Le plaisir est pour moi.”

She nodded, long-resigned to feeling like a moron in his presence, assuming his words contained a polite dismissal. So she began to turn for the hallway, arms drawn tight, when his voice drew her focus back.

“Mademoiselle.”

She held her breath and spun around, golden hair dancing across her shoulders, eyes bright and hopeful. Something flickered in his gaze, there and gone so quickly she was certain it was merely the byproduct of poor lighting and her own overwrought imagination.

But his eyes remained steady, unblinking. “Take care.”

Her heart skipped, a painful lance through the ribs. His face appeared tenser than it had a moment ago. She opened her mouth to respond but the words became caught in her throat as she watched him press the button. They continued to hold each other’s gaze in heavy silence as the doors swiftly closed.

And she stood alone once more.

She pressed the edge of her bag into her thigh, jaw aimlessly clenching as she struggled to form a coherent thought. But her musings were abruptly scattered as a sudden noise stole her attention, pulling her eyes to the door.

Classical music.

It played on loudly, the sharp and precise chords of a violin emanating through the barrier and permeating the long stretch of hall. She wasn’t cultured enough to recognize the piece, or even identify the other instruments that joined in as the song progressed, but it was a soothing melody, if not a touch melancholy. Something about it touched her deeply, tethering to her core and pulling her steadily forward, deeper into the unknown.

The door progressively filled her vision with every step, seeming to pulsate before her eyes in time to her throbbing heart. The reality of her situation finally sank in, weighing her limbs and slowing her mind, each half-formed thought stuttering on the next haunting note of the dark lullaby.

The music grew louder the further she traversed, anticipation swelling until the melody was echoed in her very veins, each artery thrummed and plucked like the chords of an instrument. She reached the barrier at last, smoothing a hand through her hair, across her middle, along the slit of her gown, breath labored and vision dimmed, everything turning to smoke around her.

And yet she forced her hand up, whether to knock or steady herself she hadn’t the faintest clue, but was spared from having to decide as the door swung open. The movement was so unexpected and abrupt she stumbled back in her shock, losing her footing and catching herself against the wall.

A finely dressed older man stood in the doorway, posture so impeccable he hardly seemed real. He eyed her carefully, his mask of neutrality cracking as his greying features twisted in an unmistakable sneer.

“Good evening, Madam. You must be Lady Brown.”

She blinked, flushing so deeply she was certain the color would stain her skin permanently. Yet she managed to push away from the wall without stumbling further, stepping forward on unsteady legs.

“Um… yes.”

His eyes roamed her figure from bottom to top, grimace deepening for the space of a heartbeat before he carefully schooled his visage once more. “Lord Voltaire has been awaiting your arrival. Please, follow me to the parlor.”

Her teeth clenched as he turned swiftly, offering his back and stepping inside. She started to follow but quickly paused, hovering in the doorway, the atmosphere suddenly changing as the air turned charged, alive. She glanced to her arm, noting the fine hairs standing on end, wondering what havoc the static would wreak on her long tresses.

But her focus was drawn upward as the man cleared his throat, an underlying note of impatience thick on his tongue. He stood beneath a wide archway, a glittering chandelier visible in the room beyond. The interior of the penthouse was brightly lit, revealing the familiar coloring of his outfit.

Another uniform.

The man was an employee.

And yet he still looked down on her.

Her fists clenched as she stepped forward, progressing with her head held high, fighting the urge to gawk at her extravagant surroundings like a common street rat. He resumed his path as she fell into step behind him, leading her through a large open room equipped with a grand piano and harp. The ceilings were vaulted, every wall covered from top to bottom in portraits. She wondered at their value. The rest of the lavish decor suggested they were a small fortune each.

At last they neared the end of the room, music cresting like the ocean tide with each step, when a sudden wave of dizziness took her under. She slowed, struggling to regain her bearings, only to feel her stomach somersault as deep male laughter floated into the room, echoing off the domed ceiling.

She froze in place, blood rushing through her ears, drowning out their voices.

She was only supposed to be meeting one man.

She gripped her clutch until the wireframe threatened to bust.

_No._

_Only one._

_I only agreed to one._

She felt faint, the music surging to deafening volumes, driving out the last vestiges of rational thought and giving way to blind fight or flight instinct.

The employee stopped in the doorway, glancing impatiently over his shoulder once more, eyes narrowed. But his expression transformed rapidly, concern marring his features as he eyed her carefully, no doubt perturbed by the grey pallor of her complexion.

“Lady Brown, are you quite alright?”

She closed her eyes.

Lady Brown…

_Where am I?_

She pressed a hand to her stomach and shuffled backward, the male voices in the other room cutting off abruptly.

As did the music.

She gasped, turning on her heal, desperate for escape.

_Not again._

_Never again._

“Ah! There she is!”

She turned to marble, every muscle solidifying in place, ignoring the desperate commands of her brain. Her head turned on instinct, peering past the man in uniform to the open doorway beyond. The adjoining room was just as large, just as bursting with portraits. But a stranger was visible within, and he cut such a jarring sight her mind was rendered blank.

He watched her with a wide grin, eyes gleaming from behind the thick lenses of horn-rimmed glasses. But what stole the breath from her lungs was the massive canvas situated before him, balanced atop a wooden easel.

She blinked, opening her mouth, but no sound emitted. And then there was a faint shuffling, fabric sliding against fabric, and a shadow moved across the floor. Footsteps echoed atop the gleaming hardwood, slow and heavy. She held her breath, hands trembling as a second man walked into frame.

Her entire body swayed in place, legs going numb as she stared into a pair of glowing amber eyes, utterly captivating in their intensity. She blinked, but the strange effect remained, too mesmerizing to instill fear.

He stepped into the doorway and paused, watching her with steady calm, his dark, chiseled features perfectly symmetrical and utterly flawless. She’d never seen such beauty in real life. Never knew it could truly exist on a living, breathing being.

Then, as though he could read the direction of her thoughts, he smiled.

And the bottom dropped out.

She gasped lightly, stepping back to avoid losing her balance outright, the impact of his gaze and grin too much to bear. Despite his inviting expression his eyes remained decidedly fixed, eerie in their unwavering focus.

And then he started forward, cutting a measured path straight for her. She felt like a cornered doe, trapped in the sights of a hungry wolf, held captive by its own hypnotic terror. As he moved forward the room behind him came back into view. From the corner of her eye she saw the second man step away from the canvas, moving towards a portable gramophone against the wall. But he quickly faded from sight and mind as the beautiful stranger stopped a mere foot away, filling her vision from end to end, sucking up all the oxygen in the room.

He reached out smoothly, never breaking her gaze, and grabbed the hand not grasping her clutch for dear life. An electric pulse raced along her arm as he lifted it to his mouth, lips hovering at her fingers, hot breath ghosting across her skin.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, Lady Brown.” He pressed her knuckles to his mouth and her entire body throbbed, a gust of steam filling her lungs. He searched her eyes, full lips grazing her flesh with each syllable. “You look positively ravishing.”

Her legs went numb. She prayed her knees would continue to support her weight as she struggled to find her voice. “I… thank you…” she took a shaky breath, forging ahead blindly. “Lord Voltaire.”

His eyes shone with silent amusement, making her fever snap and sizzle. His fingertips blazed a trail along her palm as he traced the delicate skin. “I welcome you to my home, and hope you’ll find your time here most fulfilling.”

She swallowed past the constriction in her throat, unable to pull a whole thought free from the jumbled mess in her mind. What was she supposed to say? Were they role-playing? No one provided her with a script... She was terrified of displeasing him, the overwhelming desire to flee a long forgotten memory in the wake of his appearance.

Now she was equally desperate to stay.

He seemed to read the uncertainty in her eyes, lowering her hand but not releasing it. “Rest assured, pet, my only desire this evening is getting to know the real you.”

She blinked. This man was no ordinary John. Not by a long-shot. The realization was both refreshing and terrifying.

_Lavender, what the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?_

She forced a smile, nerves as tangled and knotted as her thoughts. He tilted his head, gently squeezing her palm.

“And one other thing.”

Her heart skipped.

_Here it is._

_The catch._

Her spine went rigid.

_There’s always a fucking catch._

He smiled once more. “I’d like for you to pose for me.”

She blinked again. “Pose?”

He released her hand at last, fingers carding through his long ember locks, sweeping the bangs off his forehead as he moved beside her, facing the open doorway. “It’s a tradition, you see.” He gestured to the man at the gramophone, half obscured by the massive canvas. “I commission the portrait of everyone who passes through my doors.”

She glanced up with wide eyes, cold sweat returning with a fury, a blessed reprieve from the burning heat. “Everyone?”

He peered down, chuckling softly, rich and honey-thick. "A bit eccentric, I know. But the tradition stems from old folklore my mother taught me many years ago, and superstition is _not_ to be treated lightly.”

She traced the seam of her bag once more, picking at the clasp with her thumbnail. "I... don't know.” She shifted anxiously, glancing back to the doorway. “I’ve never had my portrait painted–”

“It’s decided then.”

He grabbed her hand without warning, starting forward suddenly, pulling her along effortlessly in his wake. She held her breath, trotting quickly to keep up, too shocked to argue.

He spoke over his shoulder, tone conversational but resolute. “Every young woman _must_ have their beauty captured on canvas.”

She shook her head as they crossed the threshold, recovering her senses at long last. “Oh, but I’m not– I mean I didn’t prepare–”

He stopped abruptly, turning on his heel so quickly she collided with his front, gasping and rearing back, only to be captured by an ensnaring arm around her middle.

“As I said.”

He pressed her into his tall frame, capturing her chin with his other hand and leaning forward, the heady scent of his cologne overwhelming her senses, infusing her with a tingling warmth she was content to bask in for the rest of eternity.

He lowered his face, brandy-scented breath ghosting across her lips. “You look ravishing.”

Her vision hazed. She pressed her palms into his chest, feeling the steady pounding of his heartbeat beneath the buttery fabric of his shirt. The soft velvet of his fitted jacket rubbed against her arms, the firm wall of his body immovable, frightening yet grounding, something solid to cling to when her knees finally gave out.

Her thighs clenched, the push and pull of fear and desire too much for her senses to cope with. She leaned into him instead, surrendering to this moment and whatever chaos it entailed. His eyes flashed, victory clear in their glowing depths as he loosened his hold on her chin, tracing the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip.

“It won’t take long.” He stared at her mouth with blatant hunger, pupils expanding. “And then we can get on with the rest of our evening.”

Her throat was beyond parched, a barren wasteland of broken dissent. But in the end only one word surfaced, bobbing along the shallow waters of her sanity.

“Alright.”

His smile was breathtaking, quite literally, leaving her light-headed in its wake. “Wonderful.”

He released her waist, stepping back so suddenly she fell forward, gasping as he caught her with strong hands at her waist. Her cheeks flamed as his resounding laughter surrounded her on all sides, light and carefree, before being pulled into his side and escorted to a tufted silk chair facing the easel.

She blinked rapidly, the rest of the room materializing frame by frame. The second man took his seat behind the canvas, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. The gramophone emitted a soft static at his back before bursting to life, classical music pouring from the oversized speaker once more.

Her heart thundered as she perched on the very edge of the cushion, setting her clutch aside in order to wring her hands atop her lap, glancing around the vast room with frantic eyes, taking in all the portraits surrounding them. Their eyes seemed to be centered upon her. Watching. Waiting.

Her host stepped away, drawing her attention as he tucked his hands into his pockets and smiled, looking to the other man with a gleam of anticipation in his eye.

“Colin, your model is ready.”

* * *

Harry took a steadying breath, knocking on the door and glancing swiftly over his shoulder at the dark street beyond.

Eerily quiet. Disturbingly still.

The porch light pulsed in time to his heartbeat, seemingly in tune with his chaotic thoughts. And then the door opened, drawing his attention forward.

He blinked, throat tensing as his eyes drifted lower, latching onto the formidable woman encased in the doorway. She held his gaze in silence for a resounding beat before erupting to life, the very air around her crackling with energy as she launched forward like a shot.

"Harry!" She stood on tiptoes and wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling him into her all-encompassing embrace, easily bending his tall frame in half as she openly sobbed. "Oh, my sweet boy!"

His airway constricted against her shoulder as she squeezed tight. He swallowed thickly, squirming in place. “Mrs. Weasley, I can’t brea-”

“Let me look at you!”

She jerked back abruptly, choking him further before remembering to release his neck. But he had only a moment’s reprieve before she grabbed his cheeks in both hands, holding him immobile once more, searching every inch of his face with her astute gaze. His entire body tensed, sensing the storm to come.

Sure enough, her short frame went rigid as a board, mouth hanging wide as fire sparked within the depths of her eyes.

“Oh my god!”

He cringed as she raised one hand, tracing his scar with the calloused pad of an index finger.

“You’ve been maimed!” And then her expression pinched to a narrow point, shadows blossoming to life across the rounded planes of her face. “Who did this to you, Harry? Give me their name, I’m going to kill them myself!”

He blinked, once, twice, overcome by the question and the vehemence in her voice. “I…” His own voice was hoarse, hollowed out by exhaustion and cloying dread. “It wasn’t… I mean, it was an accident–”

“Someone _accidentally_ tried to gouge out your eye?”

Her fingers tensed, pressing painfully into his cheekbones. He tried to pull away but his efforts were easily staunched by her unrelenting grip. He swallowed tightly, trying again. "No one did this to me, I fell on some glass during a match–"

“Horse shit.” Her jaw clenched, nose twitching. “Pardon my French.”

He blinked again, rendered silent by her knowing gaze.

“I’ve seen every kind of cut known to man, thanks to my children.” She lifted her chin, tipping his face to the side to better examine the mark. “I’ve picked shrapnel from each little hellion with the sole exception of Percy, foreheads to toes and every imaginable body part in between.” Her eyes darted back to his, allowing him to gaze forward. “And _that_ , my dear, is not the result of broken glass.”

He swayed in place, bloodless, held aloft only by her steadying hands. Her stare turned measuring, inescapable. “So I’ll ask you again, who did this?”

He sucked in a sharp breath, holding it in his lungs until they burned with raw fire, trying to bide his time. But his spine screamed in protest from being forcibly bent for so long, his mind vacant of the usual lies and excuses. He wet his lips, slowly exhaling. “Is it possible to sit, this isn’t exactly a conversation I’m keen on having in the doorway.”

She jolted, gazing to either side of the porch as though seeing it for the first time. “Of course!” She released his face and backed into the house with a bright smile, as though the last few minutes were a figment of his imagination. “What’s gotten into me? Come into the kitchen, let me make you supper.”

He rose to his full height, rolling back his shoulders, joints stiff. “Please don’t trouble–”

“Stop that at once, I’m making you a sandwich and won’t hear another word about it.”

She turned on her heel and marched into the entry, the set of her posture telling him resistance was futile. He couldn’t contain his answering smirk as he followed her in, closing the door at his back before starting down the hallway, watching her short figure round the corner into the brightly lit kitchen.

“Is anyone else home?” He studiously avoided the pictures hanging along the wall this time around, unable to bear the smiling faces, their captured innocence, so far removed from current reality.

“Not yet.” A cupboard door opened and shut. “Arthur’s working swing shift and Ron comes and goes at all hours. My poor boy, works himself to the bone searching.”

Harry wet his lips, turning the corner and hovering at the threshold, watching her busy herself at the counter, opening the bread box and reaching inside.

“Mrs. Weasley, I’m–”

But the words became jumbled in his throat, lodging beneath his Adam’s apple and causing it to bob high. She paused her task, dropping the loaf to the counter and turning in place, eyes gleaming beneath the inset lighting.

She nodded slowly, holding his gaze firm. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

He closed his mouth, swallowing heavily as he watched her approach, suddenly fifteen years old and standing before the only mother he’d known after losing his own. She stopped directly before him, a foot shorter and still larger than life.

“None of what’s happened is your fault. You know that, don’t you?”

His chest tightened, a searing pain through the center driving the breath from his lungs. He opened his mouth and words tumbled free at last, bubbling over the brim of his self-control. “If I’d been here then maybe–”

“Harry.” His jaw locked as she placed a hand to his chest, directly over his stuttering heart. “There is evil in this world. Evil that sits in the dark. Watching and waiting.”

He held his breath, the deep cadence of her voice freezing the very blood in his veins. She continued on, undaunted, shoulders level and tone even.

“Someone meant to harm my precious girl. They took her from us. They took her from a house with her parents and older brother sleeping down the hall. Whether you were in California or ten minutes away would have made no difference to them.” Her nails pressed into the fabric of his shirt, as though clenching upon the conviction of her words. “This is not your fault, Harry. There is only one person at fault, and that’s the monster who took her.” Her eyes flashed. “And rest assured, their day of reckoning _will_ come.”

Her nails pressed deeper, dimpling the flesh beneath, a gentle sting he made no attempt to evade. "And I'm not talking about judgment before our God Almighty." Shadows morphed across her features once more, transforming her face into something unfamiliar. Sinister. “They will answer to _me_ first. I _will_ find every single person involved in her kidnapping. I’ll chase them out of their dark holes and hovels and I’ll smash them underfoot until nothing remains but a dark smudge on the pavement where they once writhed.”

The darkness cleared away with her next breath, lights flooding the room with obtrusive brightness as she dropped her arm and stepped back, smile warm and wholesome. “What do you want on your sandwich, dear?”

He swayed in place as she spun on her heel, red hair falling loose from her bun and grazing her shoulders as she approached the counter.

“I know you’re particular about your cheese, I think we have some swiss in the back of the icebox.”

He blinked, drawing a hand over his face as she leaned forward, opening the cupboard and grabbing a jar of mustard from the bottom shelf.

“Um…” Her words still rattled around his mind, deeply unsettling. Chills of unease erupted along his spine. “That sounds great.”

She began to hum under her breath, a light and merry tune. He stepped back into the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame for balance and clearing his throat, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’m going to run to the restroom.”

She slid open a drawer, grabbing a butter knife. “Of course, sweetheart.”

He lurched into the hall without a backward glance, one hand pressing the wall as he barrelled ahead, desperate for privacy, an escape from the insurmountable weight pressing upon his lungs–

He passed a closed door, hand grazing the wood, an electric current racing along his limb and halting his steps. Molly’s movements in the kitchen faded into the far recesses of his mind, the air swelling around him and smothering all sound beyond the rapid thrum of his pulse.

He stood outside the barrier for several seconds, working up the nerve to grip the handle. He turned the brass knob at last, palm sweating, and slowly opened the door, teeth gritting as the hinges released a shrill groan. He froze, glancing over his shoulder with bated breath. Molly grabbed a plate from the pantry, ceramic clinking together, and continued with her mission. Harry opened the door a fraction more and slid inside, releasing the air from his lungs in a sharp rush as he flicked the light switch, revealing the interior of the room.

He swept his gaze over the furniture, unable to stare at any one item for too long. The walls were the same shade of eggshell he remembered, tinged yellow with age. The drapes a soft lilac, their bottoms singed. The corner of his lips rose at the memory they induced. She hated anything overly feminine, begging her mother for another set of furnishings in any other shade. But Molly had staunchly refused, claiming it a wasted expense when the curtains she had were perfectly functional.

So Ginny set them on fire. Always the creative problem-solver. One of the many traits he loved endlessly. Fortunately he and Ron had smelled the smoke from down the hall, putting out the blaze before it spread any further.

He pulled himself from the memory with a heavy heart, forcing his feet onward. Towards the bed. Exactly the same as it appeared two years prior. The coverlet was a faded navy, another hand-me-down from her brothers, but one she was eager to accept, finally able to do away with the pink lace monstrosity that adorned her mattress the long decade prior.

His gaze carefully roamed the shelf against the wall, cataloging the assortment of trinkets and knick-knacks detailing her youth. A mason jar filled with seashells. Another with bottle caps. A busted music box. An empty perfume bottle. He walked further along, spotting the crate in the corner, lid ajar and blankets peeking through, along with a teddy bear’s leg. He leaned forward and gripped the stuffed appendage, carefully tugging it free.

His heart swelled at the sight, fur soft and worn beneath his hands, stitching frayed and loose along the sides. The grinning face bore only one glass eye but was no less loved by its owner. Harry wet his lips, recalling the first time he saw the toy, clutched tightly in her hand as she peeked around the corner of the hall, sneaking glances at him as he visited the Burrow for the first time. She couldn’t have been older than seven, dressed in a pink nightgown, hair in pigtails.

He sighed, setting the bear atop the crate, vision hazed at the edges.

She was everywhere. In every nook and cranny. Her scent thick in the air. He clenched his fists, waiting for the sound of her deep laughter to ring through the hallway, quick footsteps to follow as she burst into the room in a whirl of color and noise. But her absence from the Burrow was obvious now. More than ever before. The room was far too still, far too silent. Harry had known she was gone... but for the very first time, he felt it.

The pain was excruciating. For he loved Ginny Weasley with all his heart.

Though never in the way she truly wanted.

From the moment they met, she was as much a sister to him as Hermione. As vital as his own blood, his own breath. He’d do anything for either girl, whatever it took to keep them safe–

_You’ve already failed._

_“Someone meant to harm my precious girl.”_

His stomach twisted. He pressed a hand to his middle, turning a slow circle, taking in his surroundings with far more precision.

"What the hell happened to you, Ginny?" he whispered to the dust-filled air.

She had a wild streak a mile long, a daring her family had no hope of curbing. They were all so quick to insist a stranger stole her from her room, but Harry still wasn’t certain. She’d set flames to her drapes without flinching. Without hesitation or fear.

What if she played with fire a second time?

He strode for the bed, steps certain and determined, stopping before the side table and pulling open the drawer. The random items within were of no use. He slid it shut and lowered to his knees, slipping his hands beneath the mattress and staring at the opposite wall, fingertips tracing the boxspring until–

His heart leaped with victory as he grazed a stack of papers. He gripped the edges tightly and pulled the pile free, holding the assortment close to his face for inspection.

Only to tilt his head, drawing back.

They were brochures, glossy and colorful. He turned the top one right side up, reading the words along the front.

St. Catherine University

He unfolded the paper, quickly scanning the text. Located in Minnesota. The campus was breathtaking, at least in the promotional photos. He carefully folded it into place, setting it on the bed and reading the next.

Sweet Briar College in Virginia

He thumbed through the remaining brochures, eyeing their covers.

Bennett College in North Carolina

Ursuline College in Ohio

He swallowed heavily, staring at the pile for a sweltering beat.

“You wanted to get away.”

Molly opened the icebox, humming louder than before, pulling him from his stupor. He quickly collected the brochures and slid them back into their hiding spot, careful not to bend the edges, knowing the meaning they must have held to her.

He drew back swiftly.

 _The meaning they_ hold _._

His jaw tensed.

_Don't you dare start thinking in past tense… don’t you dare abandon her again._

He pushed to his feet, shoulders tight. “Where is it, Gin?”

His eyes continued to flicker manically around the room, mirroring his racing thoughts. She had the twins and Ron to contend with, not to mention her well-meaning mother, each of them eager to pry into her secrets…

She’d have hidden it where no one would expect. Or at the very least, somewhere they’d have difficulty getting to. He began to pace the floorboards, eyeing each one carefully, nudging the ends with the toes of his trainers, looking for a loose slat. Several boards were uneven, but none gave way.

He set his jaw, leaning over and grabbing the corner of her rug, pulling it back. His eyes immediately fell upon a slat that sunk in deeper than the rest, wood scuffed and knicked along the edges. He dropped to his haunches and carefully wedged his blunt nails along the groove, prying it up. He smiled outright when it gave way at last, revealing a dark cubby in the floor. He reached in without hesitation, heart swelling as his fingertips grazed the edge of something rigid and rectangular…

But his smile fell in the next beat. The unseen item was far too small to be what he sought.

He pulled the pack of cigarettes free, flipping open the lid and counting the smokes within. Three, and a book of matches. He reached back into the hole and felt around, hope sinking to the pits of his stomach as his palm met only dust and cobwebs. He tossed the nicotine bundle back inside and snapped the board into place, carding his hands through his hair and rising to his full height.

 _Damn_.

He shook his head, kicking the rug flat but refusing to throw in the towel.

_Clever clever girl._

Of course she'd divide her treasures. He'd taught her the trick after all. He wet his lips, recalling his words to her from a lifetime prior.

And then his eyes flickered up, examining the water stains along the ceiling.

_If the first hiding spot was low…_

His gaze narrowed upon a particularly deep crack running half the length of the room, disappearing into the wall. He followed its path with his feet, coming to a stop before her closet. His pulse throbbed as he wrenched the door open, met with the tiny space within, bursting at the seams with clothing, metal hangers packed tight. He pulled the cord dangling before his face, switching on the overhead bulb and illuminating the narrow walls. His eyes tracked upward, following the crack along the plaster. Years ago part of the ceiling crumbled beneath a pool of resting water, replaced by merely a sheet of plywood.

He reached up carefully, holding his breath in anticipation as he pressed on the thin covering, grinning as it easily lifted away. He carefully slid it aside, just enough to fit his hands into the gap, feeling along the edge of the hole for–

He grazed the edge of a familiar shape and held his breath, grabbing the book and sliding it free, emotions raging within his chest as he gazed upon the treasure trove at long last.

Her diary.

He gripped it tightly with both hands, a faint tremor in his arms as he opened the cover, temples pulsing at the mere thought of her reaction to this massive breach of privacy.

“Sorry, Gin.”

But despite his festering guilt, the first entry was enough to elicit a reluctant smile, earlier unease pushed aside as he read the heavy block lettering filling the page from end to end.

**_Private Property of Ginny Weasley_ **

**_Rule #1: Do. Not. Read._ **

**_Anyone caught in violation of Rule #1 WILL get beaten to a bloody pulp._ **

He shook his head, lips tugging higher. “After I find you, you can beat me black and blue.”

He flipped further along, eyeing the dates in the corner of each page. She didn’t write daily, only when she had something to vent about, for better or worse. Every entry exuded such raw emotion he could practically hear her voice screaming the words no matter how quickly his eyes scanned past them. The first half of the diary was composed while she was in high school and still quite vocal about her frustrations at being the youngest in the Weasley brood, the last to experience everything.

He skipped to the later portion, muscles tensing as he spotted his own name with more frequency. The years when her crush sprung deep roots and blossomed. She began writing his name differently, curling the tail of the Y with more flourish. Harry began to sweat, the walls of the narrow closet pressing in.

He flipped further, eager to move on, only to curse as a cluster of loose photographs spilled free, tucked into the pages like bookmarks. He leaned down, extracting them from the floorboards, holding each in the light to reveal their image. The first was of a young Ginny laughing on the beach in her swimsuit, hair wet and face awash with sunlight. An equally young Ron was in the background, submerged up to his pale knees in the water, laughing just as hard and holding a crab overhead with both hands.

The picture was so quaint, so peaceful and serene it made his chest ache. He tucked the photograph beneath the cover of the diary and picked up the next.

Only for his ribs to crack cleanly down the center.

He stared at his own face, gaze vibrant, features youthful, and ran the pad of his thumb over the unblemished flesh of his left eye. His focus drifted lower, taking in the uniform. Stolen from his father’s closet. The memory came rushing back with a powerful wave, nearly tipping him onto his backside. He and Ron had attempted to subvert the draft and enlist at seventeen, posing for photos in their borrowed fatigues, eager to appear older. Alas, they hadn’t been able to forge their birth certificates, turned away at the door without ever making it to the registry desk.

He rubbed a palm over his chest, tucking the picture into the binding before picking up the third and final fallen image.

As he anticipated, it was another photograph of himself, though he appeared several years older in this one, sitting beneath an oak tree, hands raised to shield his gaze from the bright sun above. He recognized the setting immediately, the lush greenery easy to discern, as well as the white linen shirt and dark trousers, tie pulled loose.

Hermione had spent the day wandering around campus, taking photographs with her father’s new Kodak, lugging the massive contraption around with such enthusiasm Harry had relented at her first request. He hated having his photo taken, abhorred being the center of attention for even a moment. But he couldn’t say no to his best friend, not when her eyes glittered with such eager excitement. He never knew what became of the photographs she took that day. Never thought to ask. He wondered how Ginny came to possess this particular one. If she saw it in one of Hermione’s many albums, whether she asked to have it or simply stole it when no eyes were upon her.

He shook his head, tucking the final image back into the binding as well. It hardly seemed to matter now.

_Gin…_

He inhaled swiftly, overcome by the sudden onslaught of memory, her voice ringing through his mind as clear as the night they parted company for the final time.

_“I’m so sorry, Ginny. I–”_

_“Don’t.” A wet gasp. “Just go, Harry. Get out!”_

He closed his eyes, her broken sobs filling the caverns of his chest with scorching flame. He pried his lids apart, rising to his feet only to lean against the doorway, overcome, dizzy. He opened the diary once more, committed to seeing this through, to plunging the knife all the way in. He flipped rapidly through pages until he came across the date he wanted.

The other entries had been filled to the brim, messy scrawl filling the margins and changing direction along the sides to cram in all the details of her day.

But this page bore only two words. Utterly heart-wrenching in their simplicity. In their dark agony.

**_He’s gone._ **

Harry stared at the message for a short eternity, a distant hum echoing through the air, filling his head like static. He managed to tear his eyes away several moments later, flipping to the previous page. Dated nearly a month prior.

Nothing from the night before his departure. Nothing of their final encounter.

He set his jaw, caught between disappointment and relief, unsure which emotion made him more of a selfish, heartless bastard. He shook his head in disgust and thumbed forward, only to blink at the date of the next entry.

Eighteen months later.

His heart skipped. He double checked the entries, swallowing heavily. And then it was another woman's voice filling his head, just as familiar, just as haunting.

_“I should have made more of an effort to be there for her. She was hurting and I…”_

He pushed the memory to the far recesses of his mind, reading the first entry she made after his abrupt departure.

**_Got a new job._ **

**_Totally sucks._ **

He smiled, hearing her read the words aloud with a perfectly bored inflection. He turned to the next page, and the next. The dates were well spaced but each entry became slightly more detailed than the one previous, until finally she was writing in full paragraphs once more.

And then, at long last, he found a page filled to the brim, the margins overflowing, the paper overcome by enthusiasm or frustration. Harry welcomed either emotion, any emotion, as long as she was feeling something with passion once more.

The entry was dated only six weeks prior. His eyes narrowed upon the first sentence.

**_I met the most fascinating person today._ **

His pulse thrummed. A floorboard creaked at his back, stealing his focus as he spun on his heel, eyes wide as he spotted the room’s new occupant.

“What are you doing?”

His spine straightened, arms dropping to his sides, the diary still clutched tightly in hand. Ron tilted his head, tracking the movement, blue gaze sparking as he spotted the book in Harry’s grip.

“You found it.”

Harry lifted his chin, bracing his feet apart as he stood away from the wall. “It wasn’t hard.”

Ron nodded slowly, gaze flickering up. “We all knew where she hid it. Not many options in this house.”

“So you’ve read it.”

“Of course. We scoured every page after she disappeared.”

Harry raised a dark brow. “And stuffed it back in the ceiling?”

Ron shrugged one shoulder, tone light, eyes hard. “Didn’t want her to know we violated rule number one.”

A beat passed. Harry clutched the diary so tightly the spine threatened to bend. “She said she met someone.”

Ron sighed, glancing away with casual dismissal. “It’s not what you think.”

Harry stepped forward, emerging from the closet doorway. “I know she's your little sister and it’s difficult for you to imagine–”

“It was a woman.”

He blinked, jaw swiveling on its hinge as Ron met his eye once more.

“Someone she met through her office, interacted with once and never saw again.”

Harry blinked again. Ron rolled his eyes, drawing a hand through his hair.

“Christ, if you’d bother to read the rest of the page you’d know all this. She was fascinated by the chit. Some enterprising businesswoman, told Gin to look into schooling or some nonsense. It was nothing.”

Harry’s gaze flickered to the bed before he could restrain himself. Ron raised a brow, glancing over his shoulder with blatant curiosity.

“What?”

Harry wet his lips, shaking his head and drawing back to the topic. “The entry seems rather long for nothing.”

Ron sighed, facing forward, expression and tone decidedly bored. "Ginny was a part-time secretary who hated cubicles and typing. She was fascinated by _anything_ that pulled her from the monotony of her day.”

Harry tapped the diary along his thigh in time to his heartbeat. “If you say so.”

His friend’s gaze narrowed, teeth clenching. Harry braced himself for the discourse sure to follow. But Ron seemed content to let the subject drop.

“Did you visit Nott this morning?”

Harry’s shoulder blades tensed, muscles spasming, the change in topic hardly a relief. “Yes.”

Ron tipped his head. “And?”

Harry wet his lips, squeezing the diary tighter. “We have a lot to talk about.”

* * *

Tom’s long stride made easy work of the stairs leading to the entrance of the museum. As he reached the top landing the golden doors parted ways, a young couple exiting hand in hand. They slowed their gait upon spotting him, the man pulling his companion into his side and out of Tom’s path, both their gazes fixed upon the tall stranger before them.

Tom paid neither of the pair any mind as he walked calmly past, scenting the pheromones the female secreted as she watched Tom enter the lobby, cut by a pungent current of anger exuding from her male counterpart as he no doubt caught sight of her longing expression. Such delicate creatures, easily ruled by emotion and desire. It was no wonder they so frequently met such gruesome ends at one another’s hand.

Tom dismissed them from his thoughts entirely as he took in the opulent interior before him. He hadn't set foot in this particular establishment in many decades. Right after it was built, if memory served. Perhaps it was the grand opening party… or some related celebration, such events tended to run together over time. Regardless, the specifics were irrelevant, and the layout had changed since then anyway. The desk had been moved to the center of the lobby, circular and equipped with two chairs, though only one employee was stationed within. A young woman.

Tom smirked. At least one part of his evening would be smooth sailing.

He started a direct path forward, watching as her shoulders stiffened, head snapping up as though she sensed his eyes upon her. Her gaze widened upon spotting him, a bright flush staining her pale cheeks as she squirmed in place, smoothing her skirt beneath the table.

He stopped just before the counter, tucking his hands into his coat pockets as he graced her with the full splendor of his smile.

She swallowed audibly before quickly clearing her throat. “G-Good evening, Sir.”

“Good evening, luv. How are you?”

Her flush deepened, spreading like spilled wine down the column of her throat. His accent usually had that effect upon American women, doing most of the work for him. A small blessing, as he was trying to conserve his energy for whatever chaos lay ahead this evening.

She leaned forward, drawn like a magnet. “I’m quite well, thank you for asking. How can I help you?”

Her pulse beat erratically, causing his fists to tighten, stomach clenching with hunger. He ignored the growing ache, tipping his head, gaze unrelenting. “I couldn’t help but notice the signs out front advertising the upcoming exhibit.”

Her face split with a grin. "Oh yes, those went up just the other day. We're very excited about the new collection."

He searched her gaze, watching as she fell still, utterly absorbed by his presence. “As am I. I’m a bit of an enthusiast, you might say.”

Her eyes gleamed, tongue darting out to wet her lips. He tracked the movement, the hunger pulsating through him, threatening to cloud his mind. He forced his eyes back up, reminding himself of the mission, his true purpose.

“May I ask who will be overseeing the exhibit? I’d love to pick their brain.”

She blinked, shoulders sagging, as though remembering their surroundings. “Oh, well, Mr. Malfoy oversees the Ancient Civilizations Department, including all the displays.” Her hands flattened atop the table. “But if you have questions pertaining to the collection, or anything regarding Egypt really, you’ll want to speak with Ms. Granger.”

He traced the back of his teeth with the tip of his tongue, gums throbbing.

“Ms. Granger.”

He could practically taste the name, every instinct flaring to life with anticipation. The young woman nodded, leaning forward once more, staring at his mouth.

“Unfortunately, they’ve both gone home for the evening.”

His jaw tensed, eyes darkening beyond his control. She bounced in her seat, pulling her chair closer as she hastened to add, “But they’ll be back in the morning!”  
She blinked rapidly, blushing deeper with the outburst, pressing back into her seat. “If you’d like to return then.”

He awarded her with his most breathtaking grin, fists tensing in his pockets as her heartbeat galloped uncontrollably, the throb of her pulse a rhythmic song he knew well. “Thank you.” His eyes flickered to her golden name tag, affixed to the pressed lapel of her uniform. “Penelope.”

She swallowed once more. His gaze raised slowly, pinning her in place.

“What a beautiful name.”

Her breath released in a sharp rush. “Oh, I–” She shook her head, hands fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. “Thank you.”

He stepped closer, staring at his own reflection in her rapidly expanding pupils. “I have one more question for you, Penelope.”

Her hands went limp in her lap, eyes fogging over. He leaned in, voice low and deep, for her ears alone.

“Where does the museum unload its shipments?”

She blinked slowly, breath shallow, tone hollow. “Downstairs, next to the service entrance on 79th.”

He drew back swiftly, teeth gleaming. “Thank you, darling.” He withdrew a hand, rapping his knuckles atop the counter. “As you were.”

She closed her eyes, pressing a hand to her temple. “Y-Yes…” Her lids parted, a crease appearing between her brows as her flush returned with a vengeance. “Enjoy your visit, Sir.”

He nodded, already turning away. “I intend to.”

He cut a straight path through the center of the lobby, tuning out the hum of voices surrounding him, including those filtering in from the busy street outside. He rarely set foot in public venues such as this, uneasy around so many humans at once. Individually they posed no threat. But in droves, they were capable of great destruction. However the deeper he ventured into the hallways the more the crowd thinned.

The Museum was closing in less than an hour, the majority of exhibits already blocked off with velvet rope. Which was just as well, as his final destination sat beyond the double doors situated behind a portly security officer. The man stood at attention as Tom approached, footsteps echoing loudly through the otherwise empty hall.

“Good evening, Sir. I’m afraid this is a restricted area.”

Tom stopped a few feet away, smiling congenially. “Ah, terribly sorry. I must have gotten turned around.”

The man gripped his belt, weapon holstered to the side, and nodded shortly. “Easy to do here. Where are you trying to get to?”

“Your service entrance on the south wall.”

The guard blinked, pulse skipping. “That… that’s restricted–”

“Stand aside, tell no one of this encounter.”

He blinked once more, moving to the wall without an ounce of resistance as Tom strode past, pushing through the doors without a backward glance and leisurely descending the staircase at the end of the corridor. It fed into a long, dimly lit room lined with shelving and boxes. Bits of straw littered the floor, leading to a series of crates stacked in a row along the far wall.

He stopped before the first large container, lifting the loosened lid and peering inside, glimpsing an empty bed of straw. He dropped the lid to the tile, bracing his hands along the lip of the box and inhaling deeply, scenting a bevy of humans. But underneath the layering notes, he caught the faint remnants of a familiar odor.

Avery.

He glanced to the crate at his right, noting the bent nails along the frame, as though the top had been wrenched off at some point prior. He crossed over, sliding aside the lid, eyes gleaming as Avery’s scent wafted up, more concentrated in this particular bed of straw.

His gaze narrowed.

_So he got the jar._

The revelation was both a relief and a weight. He knew the jar was missing from the shipment after his morning call with the Met. Impersonating a member of the British Museum had been child's play. But up until now he hadn't been certain whether Avery was the one to obtain the artifact, and his current findings provided no further insight on where the hell it was now. Though the list of suspects was concise. Only a handful of individuals wanted it as bad as him.

Still, it was only a matter of time before the actual British Museum checked in on their priceless collection, and then they were all up shite creek.

He caught sight of a clipboard resting atop the third crate. He picked it up, glancing at the top page. An inventory list. He began to flip the paper over when an intoxicating scent floated up, invading his airways and scrambling his thoughts. He blinked rapidly, stomach growling with an overwhelming surge of hunger. His fangs lengthened beyond his control as he brought the stack of papers higher, inhaling deeply.

His eyes drifted close.

Fucking hell.

Every vein expanded, blood surging with the raw, visceral hunger the aroma awoke. He forced the clipboard down, opening his eyes and studying the text with more care. The writing was neat and tidy, evenly spaced cursive with a decidedly feminine flourish. There were faint oil marks from bare skin. A fingertip had traced along the list, marking off items as they went.

He turned to the last page, searching for any sort of mention of the jar, any indication there was something amiss. But the penmanship remained neat and tidy, unhurried. There was a signature at the bottom. He ran the pad of his thumb over the letters.

**_H. Granger_ **

His pupils expanded.

“What are you doing here?”

He didn’t bother turning. He’d heard the man’s approach several moments ago, sensing no threat. He continued to study the writing, fixated upon the name.

“I’m looking for the items that came in this shipment. Where are they?”

The man at his back shifted, unease rolling off his body in waves. Tom could sense his youth without even glimpsing him. The boy’s pulse spiked, feet shuffling awkwardly.

“You can’t be down here. How did you get past the guard?”

Tom lowered the clipboard, glancing over his shoulder at last, scanning the tense face from across the room. “I walked. Where are the items?”

The boy swallowed heavily, fists curling as he spun on his heel. “I’m notifying security.”

“Stop.”

The young man jolted, swaying in place, shoulders squaring until he resembled a plank. Tom wet his lips.

“Turn.”

He did so, albeit slowly, entire body trembling as though in the midst of a fit. His veins stood in stark relief against his pale skin, complexion splotchy with exertion, jaw tightly locked. And then the connection snapped like a stretched band. The boy staggered in place, gasping for breath and wiping the sweat from his face.

Tom raised a dark brow, studying him anew. “Impressive. Always the ones you least expect.”

The boy continued to pant, eyes narrowing even as his heart beat through his chest. “What… how did you… I don’t–”

“Think about it some more and get back to me.” Tom lifted the clipboard. “In the meantime, where are the items in this shipment?”

The young man swallowed heavily, gaze flickering between the pages and Tom, indecision creasing his face. He rocked back on his heels, as though preparing to bolt. But once more he proved an anomaly by standing his ground, straightening to his full height and speaking with edge.

“They’ve been put in storage.”

Tom lowered the pages, tilting his head. “And were the authorities notified regarding the missing item?”

“I…” the boy blinked once more, mouth opening and closing. “Missing item?”

“The jar.”

He searched Tom’s gaze, shaking his head. “Who are you?”

“The person who had the jar stolen, obviously.” He debated the practicality of torturing the man, weighing his current impatience against the time it would take to discard of the corpse after. “Has it been reported?”

The boy’s eyes flared, feet shuffling back as though he finally grasped the magnitude of his situation. “I… I don't know.”

His fear permeated the air. Tom’s stomach twisted with hunger. “What’s your name?”

The young man’s jaw clenched tight. Tom rubbed a hand along his brow, inhaling slow and deep, reminding himself that splitting the boy’s skull wide would bring him no closer to the relic. Instead, he sent out a powerful shockwave, watching the ripples chase along the air. The human swayed back, eyes glazing over. Tom lowered his arm, approaching slowly.

“Tell me.”

The boy positively reeked of terror, eyes wide with unbridled dread as he watched Tom draw near, unable to move. “Anthony Stuart Goldstein.”

Tom held his gaze steady. “And what is your role at the Met, Anthony?”

The young man’s body drew taut, pulse throbbing heavily as the tendons in his neck strained. “I assist the Ancient Civilizations Department.”

“Hm.” Tom glanced casually to the clipboard in his hand, overcome by the intoxicating scent all over again. “And this Ms. Granger is your boss?”

The human wet his lips, eyes bloodshot, on the point of hypertension as he fought Tom’s hold. “Not exactly.”

Tom stopped before him, still fixated upon the signature. “What is her role?”

“Hermione is our head Egyptologist and ancient linguistics expert.”

His hand clenched around the wood backing, the name ringing through his ears. “ _Hermione_.” His fangs throbbed. “She’s overseeing the new exhibit?”

The boy closed his eyes, sweat dripping from his temples. “Yes.”

“And where can I find her?”

Tom glanced up at the prolonged silence, listening as the young man ground his teeth to dust. His closed the distance between them, pulling together more energy and sending out a second wave.

“Anthony Goldstein.”

At long last the boy was overcome, hands uncurling as his entire body sagged against the wall, eyes covered by a matte film. Tom bore down upon him, tracing the letters of her name with his thumb all the while.

“Tell me where to find Hermione Granger.”

* * *

Theo dialed up the magnification power on the microscope, gaze narrowing as he peered into the eyepiece. He adjusted the slide beneath the lens, studying the blood culture with bated breath.

He swallowed heavily, pulse thrumming a dizzying beat as he took in the sight before him. He blinked at last, leaning back and rubbing his eyes, only to bend forward once more, gazing into the scope anew. He shook his head, sliding to the very edge of the stool, drawn forward by the marvelous beauty beneath the lens.

“Jesus Fucking Christ.”

He released a sharp peal of laughter, laced with far more hysteria than amusement, leaping up from his seat with graceful dexterity, only to pace tight circles around the lab table. After several rounds he stopped before the microscope and laughed again, silencing himself with a hand over his mouth, eyes wide and gleaming, fixed to the countertop.

“Alright, alright, calm down.” He took a steadying breath, swaying on his feet. “Treat this normally. Just like any other formulation. What would you do first?”

He wet his lips, gazing around the green-tinged room manically. “Trials.” He nodded to himself, eyes flickering across every surface, chasing some invisible solution just out of his reach. “Living trials.”

He dropped his arms to his sides and quickly crossed the floor, stopping before a sheet draped shelf, lifting the corner of the fabric and tucking it back to reveal a gleaming cage to the light. He smiled, reaching for the door in the roof.

“Good evening, Abigail.”

He unlatched the lid, flipping it over and reaching carefully inside, the sound of scurrying paws and twitching whiskers growing in volume as the mice in the neighboring cages stirred. His fingers gently encased the squirming ball of white fur, her body going lax in his palm as he drew her free and held her before his grinning face.

“We’ve got a busy night ahead of us, darling.”

Her red eyes gleamed as she braced her paws against his thumb and sniffed the tip of his nose. He wet his lips with child-like anticipation, stroking a fingertip down the back of her head.

“You’re going to help me change the world.”

* * *

Ron drummed his fingers along the tabletop, brow raised. “I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just say?”

Harry glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen doorway, shoulders tense. “Your mom is just down the hall.”

Ron shrugged picking up his sandwich. “And obviously just as confused. She’s not laughing either.”

Harry scowled, gazing forward and pushing his own plate aside. “It isn’t a joke.”

“That’s what I just said.” His friend took a hearty bite, mustard dripping from between the bread and onto the plate as he spoke around his mouthful. “There’s no set up for the punchline.”

Harry slammed a fist to the counter, leaning in. “That’s because it _isn’t_ a fucking a joke!”

Ron chewed loudly, gesturing to the doorway. “Keep your goddamn voice down, mom is right down the hall!”

Harry drew his hands through his hair, shaking his head as he peered unseeing at the woodgrain, attempting to hold onto the final vestiges of his sanity. "Christ, Ron, you saw everything I did, why is this so hard to accept?"

His friend rolled his eyes, taking another bite, tomato hanging over his bottom lip. “So you really expect me to believe we were attacked by a vampire?”

Harry braced his hands atop the table, eyes narrowing. “I expect you to believe the evidence that you witnessed right alongside me.”

Ron sighed, bits of bread flying free. Harry cringed, leaning away and crossing his arms tightly over front, gazing through the window. The moon bore down upon him. Relentless in her pursuit. He swallowed heavily, pulled from the surging waters of his mind by his friend’s voice, muffled by cheese and deli meat.

"Alright. I admit that fucker was clearly on some sort of performance drug."

Harry’s eyes snapped forward with an audible crack, body rigid. “ _Performance drug_? What kind of performance drug allows a man to be shot without flinching?”

Ron shrugged, swallowing at last, setting the rest of the sandwich on the plate. “I’ve come across some interesting sights out there on the street.” He wiped his mustard stained hands on the napkin. “Heroin makes men pretty immune to pain. Combined with cocaine they’re basically unstoppable.”

Harry arched a dark brow, gaze and voice steady. “He’d have to be pretty fucking high to ignore six bullets to the stomach and chest.”

Ron shrugged again, wiping his mouth before wadding the paper into a ball. “Look, I know it’s a long shot, but it’s a hell of a lot closer to reality than fucking fairytale monsters.” He tossed the crumpled heap onto the plate, pushing the dish beside Harry’s untouched food. “What did Nott say about your theory?”

“He agrees with me.”

Now it was Ron’s turn to arch an incredulous brow. Harry rolled his eyes, glancing to the ice box. “While looking at it from a much more scientific standpoint, but even he can’t contest the evidence.”

His friend sighed, resting his elbows atop the table. “Look, Harry. I know you’re just trying to overturn every rock but–”

“He burst into flames.”

Ron blinked. “What?”

Harry wet his lips, gazing forward slowly, silent for several beats before continuing, voice cast low. “Nott accidentally exposed the body to sunlight and it burst into flames.”

The corner of Ron’s lips tugged higher, blue gaze narrowing as he leaned back. “Now I know you’re joking.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “I would never joke about anything that could lead us to Gin.”

He watched as his friend’s smile fell like a dead weight, eyes parting wide as he searched Harry’s face for signs of jest.

“That…”

Harry held his breath, watching as realization slowly took root at the center of the man’s gaze, spreading like wildfire through his broad frame, tensing each muscle in turn.

Until at long last Ron sagged back, swallowing heavily as his arms dropped like dead weights to his sides. “Next time, don’t bury the fucking lead.”

The crushing pressure lifted from Harry’s chest at once, oxygen infusing his lungs as he inhaled deeply, mouth curving in a wry grin. “My apologies. It’s been a hectic day.”

Ron shook his head, drawing a hand over his mouth, eyes drifting to the remnants of his demolished sandwich, mustard smearing the porcelain like blood splatter. “A fucking vampire.” His gaze drifted back up, clouded, lost. “Vampires in New York City. Don’t we have enough insane shit to deal with here?”

Harry's tangled thoughts surged and collided, the image of the second body flashing like a street light before his eyes. The mangled corpse of the girl, laid bare before him, pale and brutalized. He inhaled slowly. "Actually, that reminds me."

Ron visibly braced himself, no doubt sensing the weight of the words to come. Harry sighed, tossing his unused napkin to the table and leaning in, holding his friend’s gaze with careful intensity.

“I might have buried the second lead as well.”

* * *

All things considered, this perhaps wasn’t the _strangest_ evening of Hermione’s life… but it was certainly in the running for top five. The others were all courtesy of Harry, and the utter chaos he had the habit of depositing promptly in her lap once his hands ran full.

Nevertheless, this was an unusual encounter to be certain, one that deserved its own special entry in the halls of her memory. Assuming she didn’t lose her mind before then.

She took a steadying breath, willing her fever at bay as the stranger leaned in, smile glittering in the street light.

“Please, allow me to introduce myself.” She gripped the knob tighter, feeling the tremor of brass echo through her wrist and into her shoulder. “My name is Tom Riddle.” His smile deepened at the corners, eyes darkening as a shadow passed across his spectacular features. “And I’ve been looking for you.”

Her stomach clenched, mouth going dry as a barren desert. “For me?”

Her voice sounded faint, breathy. She fought back a cringe, thoughts further disturbed by his next statement.

“You’re the city’s leading Egyptologist, are you not?”

She wet her lips, shoulders lowering at his light and curious tone. “The country’s.” She blinked, embarrassed by her automatic statement. But he seemed to delight in the correction, lightning sparking in the depths of his storm cloud gaze.

“Of course. The _country’s_ leading Egyptologist.” And then those same eyes began a slow and methodical perusal of her person. Static chased along her skin, mimicking physical touch, stealing her breath entirely. “Made all the more impressive by your age. I was expecting someone _much_ older.”

His eyes finally met hers once more, pupils wider than before, black swallowing his steel irises. She leaned into the door for support, desperately trying to recalibrate her thoughts, find her footing among the slick stone. “How can I help you, Sir?”

“Please, call me Tom.”

Her palms began to sweat, grip slipping from the knob. “ _Tom_.” She drew strange satisfaction from speaking the name aloud, briefly closing her eyes, unnerved by her bizarre reaction to this highly bizarre encounter. “The hour is quite late.” She opened her lids, standing away from the door, forcing her spine to straighten. “Certainly this matter can wait until morning.”

He tipped his head, gazing down upon her with calm intensity, eyes unwavering in their focus. "I'm afraid it can't. I'm terribly sorry to interrupt your evening, but time is of the essence. I'm ship bound for England at dawn."

She leaned back, though her feet remained frozen in place. “What do you want with me?”

A blush overtook her at once, mortified at her own phrasing. She opened her mouth but whatever words she might have spoken turned to ash on her tongue, filling the back of her throat as his eyes flashed, taking on the gleam of a predator in the dark, reflecting the moonlight in a blaze of red.

She blinked rapidly, the image flickering before her eyes, his gaze perfectly normal once more. But her heart continued to race, disturbed by the strange hallucination, mind clouding with fear and confusion. He shifted forward, still situated on the other side of the threshold but seeming to grow in size, her breath caught in her throat–

And then her attention was wrenched to the floor, Crookshanks brushing past her bare ankles to stand between them, hissing with a feral wail, eyes slit and lethal as he pinned Tom with the full ferocity of his golden gaze.

“Crooks!” She stepped forward, nudging him aside with her foot, shaking her head as he refused to budge. “Don’t mind him. Please, go on.” At last her feline companion relented, awarding her with the same indignant glare before moving aside, taking up residence a few feet away, bushy tail twitching as he watched their exchange with rigid stillness.

She brushed the hair from her face, glancing to Tom with an apology on the tip of her tongue, but her thoughts were once again scattered by his disarming smile. A wave of calm overtook her, flooding her mind and body in a heady rush. Her earlier fear and unease became a distant echo, rattling around the back of her mind like white noise, easily ignored.

“I came to New York to oversee the disbandment of my late father’s estate,” he supplied calmly, tone deepening until it vibrated through every bone in her body. “He passed away a week prior, you see.”

She stiffened, chest quaking as she fought the urge to glance down the hallway, overcome by the sudden need to check on her own father. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

He nodded, expression seeming to tense at her wrought voice. “You’re too kind. But I don’t mean to trouble you with personal details. I merely seek your expertise regarding certain items in his collection. Antiques of what appear to be Egyptian origin.”

She blinked, gripping the edge of the door and leaning in without thought. “Your father was a collector?”

His laughter dripped out rich and dark, surrounding her completely and setting her nerve endings aflame. "That's putting it mildly. He was a hoarder with far too much money for his own good. Instead of rubbish, he accumulated trinkets and baubles until the house was practically bursting at the seams. It's a miracle he wasn't buried alive."

She blinked.

_Buried alive…_

Her nails pressed into the wood grain, leaving crescent indentations in their wake as she was overcome by the strange sensation of burning sand pressing upon her limbs, pulling her down down down–

She closed her eyes, swaying on her feet and placing a hand to her middle, the image evaporating from her mind as quickly as it materialized, taking a bit of her strength and sanity with it.

“Are you alright, Ms. Granger?”

He eyes snapped open. She forced her arm to her side, gripping the door with her other hand until her fingers trembled beneath the strain. “Yes.” She took a steadying breath, the strange melancholy fading as she held his gaze. “Please, call me Hermione.”

He smiled anew. "Hermione."

Her entire body pulsed with the next heartbeat. She bit her lip, edging closer. He watched her carefully, the intensity of his expression far more appealing than moment’s ago.

“As I was saying, a few of the items appear to be of Egyptian craftsmanship.” He wet his lips, hands sliding into his coat pockets. “But I have no way of discerning their authenticity or value. I was hoping you might be of assistance, or at the very least put me in touch with someone who can.”

She searched his gaze, standing so close she could smell his aftershave, faint and spicy, undercut by layers of earthy wood notes. It reminded her of her father’s office. Familiar and comforting, yet darker, more exotic. She wet her lips, dismissing the errant thoughts. “How did you find me?”

The corner of his lips tugged higher once more, eyes creasing with self-deprecating ease. “I visited the Met, I saw the banners for the upcoming collection and thought I might ask around.”

Her brow furrowed, pulse thrumming, his casual tone undercut by his words. “And they gave you my home address?”

He blinked, expression freezing in place. And then his smile widened, eyes lit with a keen satisfaction she was hard-pressed to understand. “I admit I had to work a bit of charm on the front desk employee. Shameless, I know. But I’m quite desperate, given the timeframe of my impending departure.”

She released a slow breath. Penelope worked the night shift. Hermione held little doubt the girl provided every bit of information Tom sought. She had a stirring suspicion any woman would spill every manner of secret at his bidding. She stood straighter, the thought unsettling. “You’re heading back tomorrow?”

He raised a brow, seeming to sense the change within her demeanor, the sudden wall between them. “Yes. I’d love to extend my visit but I must return to work.” He tilted his head, tone perfectly placating. “I apologize once more for dropping in unannounced.”

She set her jaw, drawing back–

Only to be overtaken by a sudden wave of dizziness. Her temples throbbed with sudden pressure, as though something was trying to drill into her skull. She gazed down, vision tunneling, the pain dissipating in the next beat, gone as quickly as it came. She shook her head, eager for this encounter to be over, to sequester herself alone in her bedroom to suss out exactly what the hell was happening.

“Don’t apologize.” She inhaled swiftly, holding the air in her lungs as she forced her gaze upwards. “You’ve come to the right place. I’m happy to examine the pieces.” She felt her equilibrium balance out as she met his eye. His irises seemed lighter, molten. She shifted back. “Are you able to arrange for their delivery after your departure?”

He nodded, seemingly oblivious to her brief attack. “Yes. I can have them picked up from storage and brought to your residence.”

She stood straighter. “No. Not here.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as she took another step back, pushing away from the frame.

“The Museum is equipped with better facilities for examination. They may also be interested in purchasing the items if they prove to be authentic.” She leaned towards the entryway bench. “Just a moment, let me get you my card.” And reached for her leather bag hanging off the backing post, opening the top flap and feeling along the interior pockets.

Only to come up empty-handed.

 _Shit_.

She sighed, glancing up with an apologetic smile. “I have more in my office, I’ll be right back.”

He nodded, expression caught between appreciation and amusement. “Of course. Please, take your time.”

_Invite him in._

She blinked, taken aback by the sudden command in her mind. It was her own voice, and yet it wasn’t. She went rigid, tucking a curl behind her ear as her eyes drifted to the darkness of the hallway, wondering if she was in the midst of a nervous breakdown.

Crookshanks mewled at her feet, gaining her attention. He held her gaze, padding closer, back rigid and tail straight. And then Tom shifted in the doorway, drawing her eyes like a magnet.

_He's so pleasant, so well-mannered. And his father just died. You're being very rude._

She swallowed heavily, rubbing her temples once more, the invading pressure returning with a vengeance, a metal spike attempting to burrow into the base of her skull.

“Hermione.”

His name on her lips was a balm to her nerves, the throbbing pain leveling to a dull ache. Her hands dropped to her sides. "Sorry… I…" She peered up with a wary gaze, relenting to her inner voice's demand. "Please, feel free to wait in the hall. I'll be right back."

He smiled, teeth a brilliant white. She couldn't look away.

“Thank you.”

Time slowed to a crawl.

A numb stupor overtook her limbs as she watched him cross the threshold. The air shifted, electricity pulsing in visible waves across the current, only to settle in the next beat. Everything calm and quite. Still as death.

Something inside her dropped away, falling into the pit of her stomach and curdling in a pool of acid. The fog dissipated from her mind at once, a heavy cloud she hadn’t even realized was there evaporating in an instant. She saw him clearly, his beauty radiant and lethal, the intensity of his gaze alluring and terrifying.

She opened her mouth but Crookshanks beat her to the punch, releasing a blood-chilling screech before tearing forward, fangs and claws fully extended. Hermione gasped, leaping forward on instinct, catching the feline mid-pounce before he connected with his target.

Tom watched her rear back, struggling to maintain her hold on the twisting, raging mound of fur, his stance utterly at ease, lips curved in wry amusement. She flushed hotly, pinning the thrashing creature to her chest with both arms as she shuffled back towards her office.

“What’s the matter with you?” she hissed at the writhing bundle in her arms.

Tom tilted his head, eyes glittering in the moonlight as he pushed her door shut. "My father owned a Doberman. Perhaps he can smell him on me."

She wet her lips, pulse skipping every other beat, vertigo crashing upon her anew as she staggered into her office with the feral cat in tow. “Perhaps.”

She swallowed tightly, deeply unsettled by a stranger’s presence in her home, the casualness with which he closed her door, silently cursing herself for being foolish enough to invite him in. But she couldn’t think of a polite excuse to expel him, not with Crookshanks hungering for his blood.

_Just get the business card, then he’ll leave._

She swallowed once more, throat tight, holding the feline captive with one arm while she reached for the office door. “I’ll be right back.”

Tom folded his hands behind his back, grinning amiably. "I'll be here."

She forced a smile of her own, face cracking with the effort, and promptly shut the door, dropping Crookshanks to the ground a moment later. He hissed and snarled, fur standing on end as though electrified, nails raking across the barrier, shredding the wood. She released a sharp breath, still clutching the knob and shifting anxiously as she watched him try to tear his way through.

“Crooks, what is it?” He settled at her voice, padding a tight circle around her feet, eyes never leaving the door. She wet her lips, clutching the knob until it rattled. “Do you smell a dog?”

He stopped his rapid pacing just before the frame, flat face tipping back, amber eyes locking with her own wild gaze. Her heartbeat reverberated through all four limbs, throbbing in her wrists, behind her knees. “Do you smell danger?”

His tail flickered back and forth rapidly, every muscle strung taught, poised for attack.

“Is that man dangerous?”

His slitted pupils expanded rapidly. Her breath released in a rush, eyes closing.

_What have I done?_

She bit her lip, fist tightening at her side.

_Stay calm._

_Just ask him to leave._

_There’s no need to panic._

She opened the door on a surge of adrenaline, forgetting the beast at her feet. Crookshanks slipped through the narrow gap as though boneless, darting into the hallway so quickly he was only a blur of orange, fire chasing a shotgun blast.

She cringed, waiting for the commotion to follow...

But when she peered forward, the hallway was empty.

Crookshanks tore around the corner, disappearing from sight, the rapid tread of his paws fading a moment later. She blinked, heartbeat lodging in her throat.

“T-Tom?”

She gripped the knob with both hands, terror gripping her by the throat, closing off her airway.

_Did he leave?_

She gnawed her lip harder, unsure of what to do. The kettle began to whistle from the kitchen, disrupting her thoughts, vision dimming in time to her rapid pulse.

“Crooks!”

But the only sound to meet her ears was the whistling kettle and the blood surging through her ears.

_Call Harry._

She nodded rapidly, the voice in her head decidedly familiar once more. She staggered back into the office, halfway to the phone when a new sound invaded her mind.

A door opening.

She went rigid with terror, spinning in place so quickly she nearly tripped over her own feet, thoughts pushed violently aside to make room for one earth-shattering fear.

 _Papa_.

She raced blindly into the hall, submerging herself into darkness and tearing around the corner just as quickly as Crookshanks, though far less gracefully, shoulder clipping the wall as she slid across the hardwood, a low grunt of pain bleeding from her lips as she righted her course and charged into the adjoining hall, staggering to a stop before her father's bedroom.

The door was still closed.

She opened it without hesitation, holding her breath, shoulders braced–

The room was dark, shadows drifting along the wall from headlights in the distance, their faint glow seeping through the part in the curtains. Her father’s outline was barely discernible, the steady rise and fall of his chest and labored breathing music to her ears. She hovered in the doorway, clutching the frame, glancing around the room for any other source of noise or movement, then peering over her shoulder into the shadows, her entire frame vibrating with latent terror.

_Did I imagine the noise?_

She swallowed thickly, the lump getting caught in her throat.

_He left..._

She drew a hand over her face, fingers trembling.

_Should I call the police?_

She raked her nails across her scalp, grabbing her hair by the handfuls and tugging as her thoughts raced uncontrollably.

_Is it worth bringing the authorities to my door for this? With everything else that’s hanging in the balance?_

Her arms dropped, two heavy weights at her side.

_Don’t panic. He’s gone. There’s no need to put yourself on the police’s radar._

She covered her mouth with both hands, trying to regulate her breathing as she continued to hover in the frame, shifting from foot to foot, floorboards creaking beneath her weight.

Only to cringe as the kettle reached full blast, a steam whistle set to explode.

_Shit!_

She glanced over her shoulder once more, reluctant to let her father out of her sight but unable to endure the migraine-inducing screech a moment longer. She closed his door and quickly padded into the kitchen, still awash with bright light from her previous visit. She braced herself once more before entering, but the open space was exactly as she left it, the only movement a cloud of billowing steam erupting from the stove.

She shook her head, picking up a dishrag as she crossed the tiles, carefully lifting the kettle and setting it onto the counter. As the shrill noise finally dissipated she sagged into the center island, pressing a hand to her chest and closing her eyes.

_It’s okay. He’s gone. Just breathe._

But her momentary reprieve was quickly shattered by a soft tapping.

Her eyes sprang open as she pushed away from the island, eyeing the hallway with bated breath.

But the noise was coming from the French doors.

She turned, brows drawn, seeing nothing beyond the glass–

Her eyes flickered to the ground.

And she staggered back, colliding with the counter, the lip of the tile gouging painfully into her lower back as stared ahead in silent horror.

Crookshanks held her gaze through the pane, pawing frantically at the barrier from his side of the garden. She glanced at the handle.

Locked.

Her chest burned with blazing heat, a scream threatening to erupt with the same billowing steam of the kettle. But she swallowed the terror down, launching herself forward to the opposite counter, fingers wrapping the hilt of a blade as she pulled it free of the butcher’s block. The metal gleamed in the light, reflecting half her pale visage as she held it aloft, arm trembling violently.

She moved swiftly past the doors, leaving Crookshanks to meow loudly at her back as he watched her dart into the hall, feet compelled purely by terror and adrenaline, only one thought pulsing through her mind.

She leaped across the hallway runner like a gazelle, darting through the shadows and landing with a graceless thud before her father's door once more. The light from the kitchen spilled across only half the narrow corridor, illuminating one side of her rigid form and bathing the other side in darkness. She clutched the knife in one hand and the door handle in the other, pressing her back to the wood as she faced the opposite wall, eyes darting frantically in either direction.

_He’s here. He’s still inside the house._

Her vision clouded with tears, heavy drops overspilling the corners and raining off her clenched jaw.

_What do I do?_

There was little choice now. She _had_ to call the police, the jar be damned.

But the only phone was in her office.

On the other side of the house.

On the opposite end from her father.

_Should I wake him?_

She shook her head, quickly dismissing the notion. He wouldn’t comprehend what was happening, and her rising panic would only serve to excite him, making him far more difficult to manage. She panted lightly, holding the blade flat to her chest, the metal vibrating with the relentless thrum of her sternum.

_You have to get to the phone._

She pressed harder against the door.

_I can’t leave him unprotected._

She swallowed heavily.

_You can't protect him by yourself. You can't even take care of him by yourself._

_You_ have _to call the police._

She released the air from her lungs in a sharp hiss, grimacing as she finally pushed away from the barrier, knees quaking with the force of her terror, causing her to stagger like a drunkard. She pressed one hand to the wall for balance, rising on tiptoes, trying like hell to minimize noise, avoiding each creaky floorboard as though it were coated in acid. She reached the end of the hall at last, taking several steadying breaths before peering around the corner.

The path was dimly lit, revealing an empty stretch of wall and floor leading to her office.

She closed her eyes.

_Where the hell is he?_

She clutched the knife tighter, raising it up, ready to strike as she forced her feet forward, toes cracking as she padded softly along, keeping close to the wall, terror soaking her in a cold sweat every time she passed an open doorway, waiting for a hulking mass to emerge and seize her. But she made it to the end of the line without attack, stopping just before the open doorway, the desk lamp glinting off the trembling blade and reflecting across the opposite wall in a spastic light show.

She edged closer, peering around the frame.

And froze, air seizing in her lungs.

The stranger stood just before her desk, facing away as he studied the materials strewn about the tabletop. She drew the knife closer, the handle sliding in her sweaty grasp as she tore her gaze away, eyeing the phone in the corner of the room with such blatant longing she half expected it to fly through the air and into her hands by sheer will alone.

“Don’t bother.”

She shrieked, jumping in place and nearly dropping her weapon, falling back into the wall as she stared at the back of his dark head in horror.

He continued to face the desk, running a fingertip along the spines of the books stacked along the edge. “I’ll be gone without a trace before the authorities arrive.” A brief pause. “Besides, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” He tilted his head as though reading the titles. “Your father as well.”

She adjusted her grip on the hilt, raising the blade like a shield. “Get out of my house.”

His chin lifted. “Happily.” He stepped away from the desk, turning at last, movements unhurried and posture relaxed. His expression reflected the same eerie calm, eyes regarding her with cool detachment. “As soon as you give me the relic.”

She blinked, arm jolting. “Relic?”

He held her gaze with unnerving stillness. “The jar, Hermione.”

She stood away from the wall as a faint buzzing filled the back of her mind, limbs suddenly heavy. She slowly lowered the blade, unable to keep her arm aloft.

“Jar?”

Her thoughts became slow, muddled, the dark cloud returning, settling in a dense fog across her emotions, leaving her numb.

He continued to watch her, eyes taking on the unearthly glow from before, lit from within. “Yes, the jar.” He wet his lips, pupils expanding. “Where is it?”

She shook her head, strained by the effort.

_No…_

She blinked, fighting the pull of exhaustion.

_Wake up, Hermione._

She swallowed heavily, trembling in place.

_Wake. Up._

She gasped for air as though breaching the surface of a frozen lake, breaking through the ice shelf. His eyes darkened as he watched her raise the knife once more, face aglow with perspiration.

“I don’t have it.” She struggled to regulate her breathing. “Now get the hell out.”

He smirked, seemingly amused by the threat presented. “Impressive.”

She scowled, stepping into the office and moving towards the couch, clearing the doorway and gesturing towards the hall with her free hand. “It _isn’t_ here. Now leave while you still can.”

He arched a dark brow, grinning outright, revealing a row of perfect teeth. “Impressive indeed.”

He stepped forward. But not towards the exit.

Towards her.

"But we're at an impasse, I'm afraid." Another step. "You see, I can sense the relic in this house. In this very room." She moved back with his advance until her spine collided with the wall. Still, he continued forward. "I know it's here."

She swallowed thickly, unsure where to begin unpackaging such a bizarre statement. “It was. But now it’s not.”

He tilted his head, stopping with only a few feet to spare, hands casually tucked into his pockets. “You’ll excuse me if I check for myself.”

She raised the knife higher, setting her jaw. “You’ll leave this residence at once, or I’ll…” Her heart stuttered painfully as he stepped closer, long legs easily closing the space between them. The knife trembled in her grasp, glinting blade poised at his chest.

But he didn’t appear the least bit hesitant, smiling down with perverse pleasure. “Or you’ll _what_ , Hermione?”

Her thoughts slowed again, arm shaking obscenely. She pressed her other hand to her temple, shoulders drawing in. “ _Stop_ saying my name.”

He wet his lips, voice lowering to an intimate whisper that ghosted through her ears, caressing the inner corners of her mind. “Put the knife down before you hurt yourself.”

She released a snarling growl, hardly human, and slashed forward with the blade, causing him to stagger back, handsome features wrought with obvious surprise.

“Get out!” she screamed with the full force of her lungs, skull-splitting pain erupting behind her eyes.

He met her feral gaze for a fractured beat. She braced herself for his anger, his outrage, but her stomach clenched even tighter when instead he presented her with a breathtaking smile...

And then pounced.

He surged forward so quickly she couldn’t track his movements, sensing only darkness and a shift in air pressure before the knife was wrenched powerfully from her grip. Cold metal braced her arms and drove her back with such force her heels dragged over the carpet before her spine and skull collided against the wall with a sharp crack, pain screaming to life across her entire body, painting her vision red. Adrenaline surged through her veins, flooding her mind in a heady rush, dulling the sharp edges of the ache and making her dizzy with the sudden onslaught.

She blinked through the haze, peering at the face above her, cast in shadow as he pressed forward, hard chest driving the air from her lungs. She opened her mouth, struggling to find her voice through the terror. “How–”

The iron bands clenched upon her arms, bruising her flesh and waning her circulation. She glanced down, realizing with a shocked gasp his hands were the restraining force, his grip as ice cold and unrelenting as manacles. She cringed, the weight of her situation hitting her square in the chest, weaponless and pinned as she was.

“Please–”

“Shh.” He dipped his head low, cold breath chasing along her heated skin as he held her gaze as captive as her body. “As I said, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

She blinked, tears overspilling her eyes for a second time that evening. His chiseled features held no emotion, but his gaze burned bright. “I have no desire to hurt you, Hermione.” He wet his lips. “But I will.”

Her heart stuttered anew, vision fading at the edges, temples throbbing in time to her pulse. His fingers pressed tighter, eliciting a keening whimper from her throat. “Tell me where the jar is and I don’t have to.”

She inhaled a short, uneven breath, jaw trembling. “I don’t have it.”

Her voice was reedy and strained, throat constricted by terror. He sighed, darkness bleeding across the sharp planes of his face. Hermione surged forward, desperate, inadvertently pressing harder against him. “I swear!” She held his gaze firm, voice loud, clear. “I had it last night, but I sent it to the Curator this morning.”

His eyes flickered. “Did you now?”

She fought to maintain composure, one second away from vibrating through her skin. “Yes. An anonymous delivery. The police have already been–”

He squeezed her arms like a vice until she was certain the bones would snap. She cried out in pain, pressing back to the wall, helpless and cornered, unable to evade his hold. His grip loosened as soon as she fell silent, biting her lip until the skin threatened to break.

“I spoke with the Met this morning. The jar hasn’t been reported missing. The police _haven’t_ been notified." His gaze took on the predatory glow she glimpsed in the doorway, awash with hell flame. "And I _detest_ lies.”

That same fire took root in her chest, overcoming her pain and terror, spilling forth as black smoke from her lips. “And I _detest_ men breaking into my home and throwing me into walls.”

He blinked, hands clenching briefly, seemingly in surprise. And then he smiled, perversely sinister. “I didn’t break in, luv.” He leaned in further, nearly flush against her trembling form, red gaze scanning her face with methodical precision. “You invited me.”

She stomach twisted as he lowered his face beside her own and inhaled deeply, nose and mouth grazing her temple. She squirmed in his grasp, to no avail, pinned like a butterfly to a backer board.

She heard his deep swallow, watched the heavy throb of his Adam’s apple as he released his breath, whispering low in her ear. “But if you continue to fabricate tales, I’ll do far worse than throw you against the wall.”

She paled, rigid as a beam. “I _don’t_ have it. Search the house if you don’t believe me.”

He lifted his head. “I think I will.” And arched a dark brow. “Starting with your father’s room.”

He released her all at once, turning on his heel as though heading for the doorway. Her arms burned with the renewed surge of blood, tingling deep beneath the skin. But she paid no mind to the sensation, awash with blinding terror as he stepped away.

“No!”

She reached forward without sense or care for her own safety, thinking only of her father. She gripped his arm tight and yanked him back, blinking in shock as he skid across the floor, nearly losing his footing as she released her grip, watching mutely as he staggered into her desk, catching himself against the chair, the wood snapping beneath his grip.

He blinked once, twice, the red in his eyes giving way to molten metal as he gazed at her in obvious shock. She blinked as well, overcome by the renewed surge of adrenaline, liquid heat coursing through her veins. Her vision sharpened, focused, every sense attuned to the man before her as he rose to his full height.

He eyed her carefully, as though seeing her for the first time. “How did you–”

“You’re not going anywhere _near_ my father." Her voice radiated a sinister energy that made her own skin crawl. But she held her ground, shoulders braced as she held his gaze in the tense silence.

Until at last he straightened his coat, stalking towards her with the sensuous gait of a jungle cat stalking its prey. She widened her stance, blocking the doorway.

“Hermione Granger.”

She gasped, limbs turning to stone, feet locking in place. He grasped her by the arms and dragged her against the wall once more, but this time one large hand clasped her around the throat, squeezing in warning, thumb tipping her chin back to hold her gaze.

“No more games. Tell me where the artifact is.”

She inhaled deeply, churning heat surging through her most vital organs, bubbling over and seeping through her pores, causing her skin to radiate with an unearthly glow as though her entire body was lit from within. He gazed upon her with wide eyes, leaning back to take in the sudden anomaly.

She seized the opportunity, lifting her arms and ramming the heels of her palms into the center of his chest. Her jaw hung wide as he catapulted back with the force of the impact, entire body airborne as he flew across the room, crashing into the opposite wall and cracking the plaster. Chunks rained down on his dark suit and hair as he fell to the ground in a heap, long limbs quickly gaining purchase as he pushed to his feet, eyeing her in disbelief.

She gazed numbly at her hands, watching as the glow slowly dissipated, her skin returning to its normal olive complexion. He shifted on his feet, bits of plaster falling from his shoulders to the ground. Her gaze darted up, spine straightening at the sight before her.

His lips parted to reveal elongated canine teeth, sharp and pointed as daggers. He tilted his head, never breaking her gaze. “What the hell are you?”

She lifted her chin, fists clenching at her sides. “The nation’s leading Egyptologist. What the hell are you?”

A beat.

And then his lips curved into a genuine grin of delight, fangs on full display, glinting as brightly as the forgotten blade. “Intrigued, Ms. Granger. _Very_ intrigued.”

There was a knock at the front door. She gasped and glanced over her shoulder, every instinct roaring to life within. Somehow she _knew_ who resided on the other side of the barrier. It was as though she could smell him, sense his heartbeat, the familiar tempo a siren call in the darkness.

She inhaled deeply. “Harry!”

The knob rattled loudly. “Mione?”

Movement across the room drew her gaze. The stranger’s smile remained in place, the contrast of his handsome features and lethal fangs a disturbing sight to behold. The shadows seemed to swell at his back, bleeding across the walls like massive wings. His eyes gleamed from the darkness.

“We’ll speak again soon, Hermione Granger.”

She swallowed heavily, spinning on her heel and racing into the hall, colliding with the door in her haste to wrench it open, fingers frantically fumbling with the lock.

At last the metal slid free, the door swinging wide as she pulled and Harry pushed. He stumbled forward, knocking into her shoulder and sending her toppling into the opposite wall. He blinked, reaching out to steady her frame, quickly scanning her face.

“Mione, what’s–”

“He’s in there!”

She wrenched free of his hold, pointing a trembling hand to her office. Harry spun to face the open doorway, hands balling to fists as he moved swiftly forward, movements tight and agile, muscles coiled for combat. She held her breath as he disappeared into the room, hands pressing her mouth as she awaited the sounds of a violent altercation.

But only silence greeted her.

She swayed in place, breath held tight as she watched Harry’s shadow track across the far wall. He came into view at long last, eyeing the busted wall and toeing aside fallen plaster before meeting her gaze across the hallway.

“Where is he?”

She blinked, heart skipping as she nervously paced forward. “He…” She gripped the frame, peering into the room.

But only Harry stood inside.

A gentle breeze blew past, sweeping the hair from her sweat and tear-slicked face. Her eyes darted to the open window, the sheer curtain dancing in the current.

She inhaled sharply, sagging into the doorway, utterly boneless. Harry stepped towards her, expression stricken.

“Mione? What happened?”

She shook her head frantically, launching forward without warning. He froze in place, catching her as she collided with his chest, pressing her face into his shirt and bursting into tears. He embraced her at once, smoothing a hand over her hair and whispering words of comfort. But they all jumbled together in her mind, interlaced with her own fractured heartbeat pulsing through her ears.

After several moments she caught her breath, lifting her chin and meeting his worried gaze.

“Harry.” Her voice was thin, vision hazed by tears, blurring his face. “I know this sounds mad...” She wet her lips, clutching his vest with both hands to stay upright. “But I think I just met a vampire.”


	5. Superstition

_“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”_  
~ Oscar Wilde, The Portrait of Dorian Grey  
.   .   .

Harry’s scalp screamed in protest as he gathered the thick strands at the root and pulled, spinning on his heel to continue his rapid pace along the rug. He saw Hermione shift from the corner of his eye, perched on the far edge of the sofa clutching her arms, shoulders drawn tight as she watched him wear a hole into her floor.

“Harry, please sit, you’re making me nervous.”

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, day-old stubble scraping against his calloused palm. “I can’t sit still.” He shook his head. “You were attacked. You could have been killed.”

He raked blunt nails across his scalp once more, stomach clenching with nauseating guilt as he was transported from Hermione's dim office to Ginny's narrow closet in an instant, trapped by pressing walls, impending doom hanging overhead as surely as Damocles’ sword.

_I can’t protect anyone I love…_

He lowered his arms, fists clenched as he stared at the maps hanging on the wall ahead. “This is all my fault, I put you in the middle of this. I put you in that monster’s path–”

“Harry.” His head turned sharply, focus drawn by the hard edge of her voice. She held his gaze, tightening her hold on her arms. “Please. Sit.”

He turned in place, eyes drifting to the busted wall as he slowly trudged to the couch. She scooted sideways, allotting him the cushion beside her. He drew in a deep breath, holding it in his lungs until they burned with the same raw fire as his blood, sitting at last. He tore his attention from the wall, eyes raking her rigid frame with meticulous care, lingering on the dark bruises on her biceps, the skin already blooming every shade of violet and blue. He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding loudly in the oppressive silence.

“I’m going to kill him.”

Her spine somehow stiffened further. “You’ll _do_ no such thing. You’re already wrapped up in one death, I’ll not have you entangling yourself in another.”

He braced his forearms against his knees, leaning forward while fighting to maintain his calm. “Tell me everything that happened.”

She tilted her head, hair falling past her shoulder. “I already did.”

“You left out details.”

Her fingers clenched over her elbows. “What do you mean?”

He gestured to the wall. “You told me a man attacked and threw you against the wall. You didn’t mention anything about the wall caving in.”

She wet her lips, eyes darting forward, fixing upon the busted plaster and fallen debris. Harry tipped his chin towards the desk. “Or the chair.”

He watched her hold her breath, eyes skimming the wood fragments piled on the rug. She leaned away.

“I…”

“Hermione.”

She jolted violently as his hand found her knee. He lifted his arm at once, chest seizing at the unbridled panic on her face. She blinked and it was gone. But she continued to lean into the arm of the couch, the gap between their bodies as wide as the continental divide. His muscles clenched, desperate to strike out, to pummel and bloody the source of the haunted look in her eyes. His offending hand curled in the air, dropping to the cushion.

“What did he do to you?” His voice came out deeper than intended, nearly a growl. He felt his self-control rapidly slipping, the urge to pound his fists into the wall nearly overwhelming his senses. His vision hazed at the edges, heat swelling in his chest, an inferno set to explode.

_Not now._

He swallowed thickly, knuckles cracking as his fists trembled at his sides.

_Please, not here._

If he lost control there was only one possible recipient of his rage, and he’d saw off his limbs before raising a hand against her… Yet when the red saturated his vision, nothing mattered but appeasing the blood lust. He couldn’t risk her safety. He had to keep his wits about him, no matter the cost.

His rising dread settled at her long sigh. Her limbs seemed to unfurl before his eyes, weight sinking back to the center of the cushion and closing the void between them.

“I’m alright, Harry. Just a bit…” She interlaced her fingers atop her lap, studying them. “Scattered.” A heavy beat. She glanced up, hazel gaze gleaming with barely tamped emotion. “But I told you everything that happened. He grabbed me and pinned me to the wall, that was it.”

He bit his tongue, nails pressing his palms, threatening to break the skin. The urge to reach out and pull her into his side was so great his arms shook with restraint. Something about her expression unnerved him deeply. It was far too calm, too well contained in the aftermath of such terror.

“How did the wall get destroyed, Hermione?”

She lifted her chin, eyes flickering in the lamplight. He recognized that look. Knew it as well as his own face in the mirror. She’d always been a terrible liar, far too pure and prosaic to pull off manipulation.

“Hermione. Look at me,” he bid softly.

She pressed her hands tighter. He waited out the silence, heart thundering as she slowly peered up. He held her eye with calculated calm, carefully side-stepping her defenses. “You don’t have to lie. Whatever happened… you can tell me.”

She blinked rapidly, eyes filling with tears, her next words scattering his thoughts with stunning efficiency. “You believe he was a vampire?”

He searched her gaze, stomach churning anew. “Yes.”

She shook her head. “I can hardly believe it and _I_ was the one who met him.”

He released a sharp breath, gaze snapping forward as he drew a hand through his hair, fringe standing on end. Her hands lowered to her sides, fingers curling over the edge of the cushion as she watched him carefully.

“Harry? What is it?”

His shoulders lowered as he forced the confession free before it caused any more damage. “The man who attacked us in the Park… he was a vampire, too.”

He felt her weight shift beside him, eyes closing as he awaited the inevitable–

“ _What_?”

He cringed as she reared back, only to surge forward with a vengeance.

“How could you not tell me, Harry?”

“I only found out today–”

“When you brought me the jar you said there was something different about him, that he wasn’t ordinary. You failed to mention he wasn’t _human_.”

“Mione, I didn’t know.” Her stare turned blistering. “I wasn’t _certain_. I could hardly tell you he puked a river of black slime all over me before shriveling into a husk. You’d think I was insane.”

She blinked. “He did _what_?”

“Exactly. You’re just like Nott, have to see it to believe it.”

“Nott?” He saw the moment realization sparked in her gaze. “You brought the body to Nott. He’s the contact you were waiting on.”

He nodded. “And he confirmed what I already suspected. The man wasn't human. I came by to tell you everything.”

She faced forward, eyes darting around the room. “This is madness… utter insanity.”

He bit back a laugh of incredulity. “No argument there. But once again we’ve strayed off topic. What happened to the wall, Hermione?”

She gripped the cushion tighter, face paling. "It..." Her breath shortened as a visible tremor chased through her limbs. Harry braced himself in turn, readying for every worst-case scenario, bloodlust rising, red seeping into the hazy frame of his vision.

_I’ll rip the bastard to pieces with my bare han–_

“It was me.”

He blinked, thoughts shattering. Her spine straightened. “I did it, Harry.”

His brow creased. “What do you mean?”

“I threw him across the room.”

Silence encased them for several seconds, timed by the rapid pounding of his heart. He swallowed, finding his voice at last. “I don’t understand.”

“That makes two of us.” Her hands released the couch to grip the hem of her skirt. “I don’t know how I... everything happened so fast, it’s such a blur.” She closed her eyes, knees pressing hard. “He didn’t believe me about the jar. Thought I had it hidden somewhere.”

His chest tightened as her face twisted into a grimace of acute pain, no doubt reliving a nightmare behind her closed lids.

“Then he threatened to search Papa’s room and turned for the hall and I–” She cut off abruptly, shaking her head, eyes snapping open, clouded by tears. “I grabbed him. I wasn’t thinking. I was so scared. I barely touched him and he went crashing into my desk.” She inhaled swiftly. “But that was nothing compared to…”

He leaned in, drawn by her account. “Compared to what?”

Tears over spilled her lashes. “He attacked me again and… I threw him clear through the air.”

He searched her watery gaze, biting back half-formed questions as he watched her entire body tremble.

“My skin started to glow and I felt this overwhelming surge of strength and I threw him across the room and the wall broke and then you knocked on the door and everything–”

“Hermione.” He reached out and gripped her knee, squeezing gently, taking comfort when she didn’t retreat. “Breathe.”

She inhaled sharply, wiping her eyes once more. “I know it sounds crazy. It _is_ crazy. I think I might be sick. My mind is slipping away.”

He shook his head, pulse thrumming erratically as he clenched her knee. “You aren’t losing your mind and you _aren’t_ sick. I believe you.”

Her breathing hitched, hands lowering to reveal red swollen lids. “You do?”

He nodded, voice thick with emotion and dawning fear. “Yes. But I _need_ you to walk me through it, every part, no matter how inconsequential it might seem. I need to understand what happened so I can understand him. So I can understand all of them.”

She stared at him with blatant uncertainty for several moments before nodding, shoulders squaring. He released her, tilting his head as her words replayed through his mind a second time.

“Wait… did you say your skin _glowed_?”

She sighed, sinking back into the couch and raising her hands, gazing at her palms. “That’s not all. There’s something else I need to tell you.” His pulse skipped manically as she lifted her chin, gaze sparkling. “About the jar.”

* * *

Lavender squirmed in place, knees and shoulders stiff from holding her position for so long. She finally settled into the utter bizarreness of her evening, until each strange turn of event became commonplace, fantasy giving way to reality.

Even so, her joints and muscles were tired of posing for the canvas, eyes burning from remaining open for hours on end. At least she was facing the floor-to-ceiling windows, awarding her a breathtaking view of the city lights from the highest vantage point she’d ever experienced. She had never gazed upon anything from such perspective and was completely absorbed in her bird’s eye view.

Her prone position also gave her temporary reprieve from her host’s penetrating stare. He’d taken up residence against the opposite wall, leaning back with his hands tucked into his pockets and head tipped to the side as he studied her at leisure. Yet she was spared from meeting his relentless gaze, certain she’d burst into flames at the raw intensity housed within. She’d never been the subject of such blatant scrutiny, and his sublime wealth and appearance only made her more aware of her many shortcomings and flaws.

Hours later and she still had _no_ idea what the hell she was doing here. Not the faintest clue why his associate flagged her down in the street, deeming her worthy of such a man’s time and attention. But she pushed the rampant ponderings aside, knowing the more she thought about it the more she'd squirm, proving just how undeserving of his hospitality she truly was. The gramophone continued to play on throughout the evening, filling the expansive room with a full-length symphony and reminding her just how far out of her depth she was floating.

At long last the artist adjusted on his stool, leaning away from the canvas to set the brush aside. “Alright. I think we have it.”

She blinked, eyes tearing at the sensation as she whipped her head forward. But her eyes didn’t move to the canvas or the man seated behind it. No. They went directly to her host, continuing to watch her from his spot across the room. His eyes remained focused upon her as he stood away from the wall and began a measured path forward, stopping just before her chair and holding out a hand, the corner of his lips lifting in a wry smirk. “Milady.”

She reached out and accepted the offering without hesitation, fire racing along her limb and filling her chest as he pulled her swiftly to her feet, checking her momentum with his body by wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her into his side.

"Let's take a look," he murmured and then grinned, the sight weakening her already rubber knees. She leaned into him as he led her forward, fingers pressing her hip.

The young man met their shared gaze as he pushed his glasses up his nose, standing from his stool to allow them an unimpeded view of the canvas. She held her breath as they made their way to the front, gazing upon the image at last. Her heart skipped, lips parting of their own accord. “It’s beautiful.”

The young man beamed, bouncing on his heels with endearing enthusiasm. Her host tilted his head, expression unreadable as he studied the painting.

“I agree,” he stated at last. And then his head lowered, lips grazing her neck without warning, warm breath chasing along her skin and sending chills in its wake. “And yet it hardly does your perfection any justice.”

Her pulse thrummed, the overwhelming sensation pulling a bubbling laugh from her throat. She clamped her lips tight, mortified by her reaction, grateful when the young man stepped forward and effectively drew the attention away from her.

“Another success! I’ll move it into the den to dry–”

“No.” Her host raised his head, fully supporting her weight as he met the boy’s eager gaze. “Leave it.” His voice held a hard edge that made her neck stiffen, but his smile was quick to chase the unease away. “Thank you for your time and talent as always, Colin. Your payment is awaiting you at the front desk.”

Colin blinked, eyes flickering behind his square lenses as he took in their pressed bodies, seeming to realize the charged and awkward situation at last. He cheeks suffused with color as he shuffled back and collided with the stool, nearly losing his balance. Lavender gasped, raising a hand on instinct, though her feet remained firmly rooted.

“Oh, yes, of course.” His blushed deepened as he cleared his throat and found his footing, moving the stool out of his path before meeting Lavender’s eye. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss.”

She smiled, dropping her arm. “You as well. Thank you for painting me, I’m truly honored.”

He shook his head, straightening his jacket as he beamed. “The honor was mine. Artists only dream of capturing such beauty on canvas.”

She felt her own face heat with the compliment, watching as he nodded to his benefactor before departing swiftly from the room. She brought her focus back to the portrait, amazed to see her own likeness brought to life in such a way. As though she were someone important.

“I do believe young Colin was flirting with you, Lady Brown.”

She gazed up swiftly, relieved to see humor dancing in his honeyed gaze. Jealousy was a dangerous creature in men and women alike, and she certainly didn’t want to induce his wrath over something so frivolous.

“I doubt that boy’s flirted a day in his life,” she replied, attempting to match his jest with one of her own.

His deep laughter bled down her spine in a coaxing caress. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Artists often become so lost in their work they hardly notice the presence of others.”

She smirked. “Until their models _move_. He certainly noticed every time I blinked."

His expression rapidly sobered, intensity sparkling in his gaze. “You’re the most beautiful specimen to ever sit in that spot.”

Her stomach clenched.

Jealousy was a dangerous creature indeed.

She bit her lip, taking care to keep her voice light, unaffected. “There’s been many others?”

Despite her loose posture he seemed to sense the true nature of her inquiry, mouth curving into a wry and knowing grin that left her awash with embarrassment.

“Let me show you.” He offered his hand once more, a gesture born of chivalry versus practicality considering their tightly pressed forms. She accepted his palm with bated breath, allowing him to maneuver her into the adjoining room, this one equally overcome by portraits.

“My mother immigrated to America by herself at only fifteen,” he stated, rather unexpectedly. She peered up, watching the sharp edge of his jaw as he spoke. “She dreamed of a better life, opportunities well beyond what an impoverished young woman in Eastern Europe could hope to afford. She met my father a few years later and made quite the life for herself here. But she never let go of her people’s traditions. No matter how unconventional.”

“She sounds like an incredible woman.”

He nodded shortly, the glimmer in his eye fading. “She certainly was.”

Her heart ached at the melancholy in his voice, the sudden flatness of his tone. She longed to hear him speak with enthusiasm, passion, to break this dark spell. She squeezed his hand, smiling gently. “Tell me about her tradition.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist as he led them across the glossy floor to the far wall. The gesture was so casual, so intimate it made her heart swell.

“According to the legend of her ancestors, to capture one’s likeness is to capture a piece of their soul.” His words pulled her from her dream-state and stuttered her pulse. He peered down, seeming to read the uncertainty in her expression. “Not to worry, pet. It’s not harmful. It merely immortalizes a piece of you, forever encapsulating your youth and beauty.”

She tilted her head, intrigued by the notion. “Immortalizes? What do you mean?”

“Long after our physical bodies perish, our souls will continue to live on through our portraits.”

She gazed forward at the sea of frozen faces. “So she believed the portraits are… alive?”

He laughed once more, caressing her hip as they came to a stop before the wall of frames. “Not in the traditional sense, but that’s one way of looking at it I suppose.” He peered ahead, eyes skimming each portrait with unmistakable appreciation and awe. “She believed a person’s essence would stay behind. Able to look out upon the world for all eternity. Or rather, for as long as the portrait exists.”

“That sounds terribly lonely.”

He blinked, gazing down at her swiftly, eyes burning bright. She flushed, quickly continuing. “To be forced to watch the outside world but unable to interact with it. Trapped in silence.”

He tilted his head, watching her with quiet intensity. She bit her tongue, cursing herself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–” She swallowed heavily, sweat collecting at her nape. “I meant no disrespect to your mother’s beliefs. I shouldn’t have–”

“It’s alright, pet.”

He caressed her side once more, his warm palm sliding around to splay across her stomach. "Don't apologize. I find your outlook on the subject quite refreshing." His eyes narrowed a fraction, slowly cataloging her face. "You have an interesting view of the world."

She laughed shortly, shaking her head and glancing down, shuffling anew. “I wouldn't say that.”

“Don’t diminish the value of your thoughts or opinions.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. He held her surprised gaze a moment longer before glancing forward, prompting her to do the same, thoughts spinning.

“This is Katarina Maria Leopold. Princess of Bulgaria,” he stated lowly, words filtering through her mind at half speed as her gaze was held captive by the painting. The young woman wore an emerald ball gown and diamond headdress that framed her watchful almond eyes.

Lavender felt her mouth run dry. “She’s stunning.”

He tilted his head, examining the portrait with far less rapture. “As are all women, each in their own way.”

She bit her lip, warmth pooling low in her abdomen at the words, kindled by his resting palm. She continued to walk the narrow plank between jealousy and desire, unsure which side proved the greater threat.

“How do you know her?” She asked tentatively.

His fingers thrummed just above her navel, the thin material of her dress doing little to mitigate the raw heat of his touch. “Kat and I were childhood friends. Her father, the former Tsar, was friends with my mother’s second husband.”

She released a slow breath, thoughts caught in a haze. “That’s incredible.”

He shrugged. “Not really. The monarchy in and of itself is an abstract concept to me, child of democracy that I am.”

Her shoulders tightened, the floor shifting beneath her feet as the conversation moved steadily out of her depth. Matters of politics and government were as foreign to her ears as the French spoken downstairs. But to her endless relief he steered the conversation back to safe waters, directing his focus to the large portrait just beside the Princess.

“And this is Wendell Perry.”

She swallowed thickly, feeling like a fool for not recognizing the name. The man was no doubt a famous politician or military leader.

_Christ, Lavender, you don’t belong here._

“He was the front desk manager when I first took up residence. Retired many years ago and moved to the country.”

She blinked, gazing up at his profile. “The front desk manager?” Her shoulders eased. “You mean, from downstairs?”

“Hm.”

She blinked again. “But…” She stared forward, gazing upon the smiling elderly man in confusion. “You have his portrait hanging next to a Princess?”

He glanced down, arching a brow. “Why not? There’s over 300 portraits on display and nearly a hundred more in storage, plus countless others scattered throughout my remaining properties.” He pulled her deeper into his side. “I hold no painting more valuable than any other.” He peered ahead, tucking his free hand into his pocket. “Every single image, every subject, is just as important as any other. Just as worthy of being on display. Being seen. Regardless of wealth, name or race, at the end of the day we’re all but one thing...”

A heavy, endless beat. She held her breath, blood surging as he met her gaze once more, eyes glimmering beneath the chandelier.

“Art.”

She smiled, warmth permeating her chest and suffusing her limbs, turning them to melted wax. His amber gaze flickered down to her mouth. “Let’s retire to the lounge,” he whispered.

She nodded, allowing him to lead her away from the wall to the nearest archway. She studied each portrait they passed with deep fascination, a new found appreciation and curiosity blossoming to life within her. She wondered who each person was, what meaning they held to him and whether he took the time to tell them the story behind the tradition. Her thoughts continued to surge and crash upon each other, broken and fragmented until a particular sight caught her eye.

She blinked, step faltering. “What is that?”

He slowed his pace, glancing over his shoulder, following her gaze to a spot high on the wall. A large gold frame dominated the space, a handsome man in uniform at its center, facing sideways before a blurred background.

“That’s John Buchanan. A famous military General.”

She shook her head, pointing upward. “No, I mean the number at the bottom.” Her gaze narrowed as she studied the writing. “1894.” She dropped her arm, glancing sideways. “That’s when it was painted?”

A beat.

“Indeed.” He smiled, teeth glittering. “Inherited from my mother’s collection.”

She nodded, a cold draft stealing through the doorway and drawing her focus. She absently rubbed her arm and glanced upward again… only to freeze in place, cold seeping into the very marrow of her bones. She stared at the portrait of the General.

And he stared back.

She turned rigid.

_Wasn’t he gazing sideways?_

She swallowed heavily, forcing the thought aside.

_You really are an idiot, Lavender Brown. What a stupid question._

And then he was pulling her forward, the portrait disappearing from view as they emerged through the archway into the next richly decorated room. He released her hand halfway across the floor, gesturing to a tufted leather couch at its center.

“Please, sit, relax.”

She smiled, crossing over and settling into the middle cushion, smoothing a hand over the satin folds draping her thighs as she fought the urge to fidget. Meanwhile, he made his way to an ornate cabinet at the wall, speaking over his shoulder as he opened its doors.

“Wine?”

She blinked, tongue curling inside her mouth. “I…”

His laughter surrounded her once more, echoing off the domed ceiling. “I promise not to tell if you don't.”

She smiled, crossing her legs and interlacing her hands over her knee. “I’d love some, thank you.”

She held her breath as he set to work, revealing the stocked bar at his front. Sparkling decanters stood at the top, a row of wine bottles situated beneath. She hadn’t had alcohol in months, and even then only cheap moonshine Parvati procured from a pedaller outside the shop. It had been strong enough to strip paint off a car, the mere memory making her cringe.

Prohibition had hit the City hard. The crime rate was higher than ever as bootleggers and smugglers moved in from around the country to fill the ever-growing demand the ban created. The need for vices was at an all-time high following the war and shifting political climate. Most of it went far over her head, but one thing Lavender knew for certain was anyone caught in possession of alcohol could be arrested on the spot, and anyone caught brewing or selling would be awarded a one-way ticket to the shiny new prison on Rikers.

She watched him reach forward, dexterous fingers skimming along the bottlenecks. “Any preference?” He asked over his shoulder.

She shook her head, knuckles turning white as she gripped her knee tighter. “No, I’m happy with whatever you choose.” She couldn’t see his face but heard the smirk in his voice all the same.

“I have an inkling you prefer sweet to dry.”

She wet her lips, sitting straighter. “Yes.”

“Excellent. We’ll go with the Sangiovese.” He grabbed a dark bottle from the center of the row, turning it over in his hands to view the faded label. “This was imported directly from Tuscany, long before the ban.” He pulled open a drawer and extracted a gleaming opener, swiftly plunging the spike into the spout. “It has a marvelous blend of cherry, currant and plum. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

She watched him skillfully loosen the cork, caught in a trance. “I’m sure I will.”

“The name Sangiovese derives from the Latin _sanguis Jovis_.” The cork pulled free with a soft pop. “The blood of Jupiter.” He set the bottle and tool aside, reaching for two tall-stemmed glasses beneath the cabinet. “Jupiter was King of the Gods. The supreme master of man and immortal alike.”

The glasses were tinged red at the base of their bowls. She tilted her head, admiring the design as he began to pour, the ruby liquid making her mouth water and fingers twitch with anticipation.

His lips curved wryly. “Tonight, we drink as Gods.”

She released a slow breath, chest tightening as he set the bottle aside once more. “I used to love those stories,” she admitted softly.

He grabbed both glasses, starting towards her. “Pardon?”

“Myths. Legends. I used to read books about them in the library across from our–” She blinked, blushing hot and shaking her head. “Sorry, I got carried away.”

He stopped directly before her, extending a full glass. She accepted with a trembling hand, biting her lip and staring at the rim as she steadied her grip, lowering the crystal to her thigh.

He backed up a few paces, lowering into a leather armchair directly across. “Why are you apologizing? I'd love to hear more.”

She shifted, pressing the crystal stem between her thumb and forefinger until she was certain it would snap. “I’d rather talk about you.”

He leaned back, resting the foot of his glass atop the armrest and watching her carefully. “You don’t like talking about yourself.”

She swallowed heavily, flush spreading down her neck. “I just… my life isn’t that interesting. Certainly not compared to yours.”

“I already know everything there is to know about my life, making your story far more intriguing.”

Her gaze lowered to the glass, fixing upon her berry-tinged reflection in the liquid. “That’s all I was going to say. I used to read about Greek and Roman myths when I was young.” She peered up at his prolonged silence, watching as he licked his lips. Her thighs clenched.

“Try the wine,” he commanded softly.

She obeyed at once, slowly raising the crystal to her mouth, throat suddenly parched. She took a deep swallow, holding his gaze over the rim, heartbeat echoing in her ears.

And then she jolted, fire exploding to life in her stomach and chest, heat rising along her throat and into all four limbs, bleeding down down down to her ankles and toes and pooling in her sex. She gasped, uncrossing her legs to press her knees together, overwhelmed by the sensation.

“Good?” He asked with a knowing smirk, taking a deep swallow from his own glass.

She licked her lips, remnants of the bitter-sweet liquid lingering on her skin. Her mouth tingled. Her knees pressed harder. “Yes.” Her voice was breathy and hitched. She squeezed the crystal stem in a vice as her vision stretched and sharpened, the colors in the room saturating, deepening, appearing more vibrant than before. But she couldn't pull her eyes away from _Him_ , transfixed by the heavy bob of his Adam’s apple as he took another deep pull from his glass, lowering it to his side without taking his eyes from her squirming form.

“Tell me more about yourself, Lady Brown.”

She released a sharp breath. The shadows seemed to swell across the wall behind him, turning his eyes into two burning embers in the dark.

“What do you want to know?” She asked tentatively.

He traced the rim of his glass with an idle fingertip. She noticed a gleaming silver ring on his thumb. “How did you get involved in this line of work?”

She reared back, nearly losing her grip on the stem.

“Don’t be ashamed.” His finger continued its slow and measured path across the crystal, a low-pitch hum ringing through her ears at a thousand decibels, overpowered only by her staggering pulse. “I do not ask to elicit embarrassment. I genuinely want to know.” He set his glass on the table beside the chair and leaned forward, ensnaring her completely with the intensity of his focus. “I _must_ know.”

She searched his gaze, trapped between the unrelenting walls of shame and desire. “Why?”

“Your portrait will be on display in my home for many years to come. I’d like to know the story behind it.”

She pressed back into the cushion. “There isn’t anything to know. I’m just… me.”

He smiled anew, expression turning positively feline, exuding cunning and mischief. “Everyone has a story, pet. And I’d like to know yours.” He braced his forearms against his knees and held her gaze without blinking, flames dancing in the heat of his eyes. “Tell me how you became a paid companion.”

She took a deep breath, bringing the glass to her lips to take another convulsive swallow. But this time she relished the flood of heat across her limbs, seeking the inferno, willing it to consume her entirely and deliver her from this twisted reality. Alas, when she lowered the glass her surroundings remained unchanged, though the galloping tempo of her heart had slowed, the festering unease that gripped her by the throat slowly waning.

“That’s the nicest title I’ve ever been given. Most people just call me a whore.” She blinked. And then clasped a hand over her mouth, eyes widening. “I don’t know why I said that.” Her words were muffled by her palm, but he seemed to understand them nonetheless.

“The wine is quite strong,” he provided, the corner of his mouth turning up.

She nodded, hand falling away. Another breeze swept past, disturbing golden strands of her hair and instilling her heated skin with blessed cool. She glanced around.

And jolted.

The portraits all stared ahead, facing the center of the room.

Watching them.

She wet her lips, forcing her gaze away. Back to him. “I never meant to become this.” She didn’t plan for the words, didn’t anticipate their escape, and yet her chest felt lighter upon their release. A heavy weight melted away from her shoulders even as the heat surged anew, turning her core molten. And then the rest of the words came toppling out, as though they'd been awaiting this very moment and wouldn't miss their chance at freedom.

“My mother worked as a receptionist when I was young. One winter she slipped on the ice outside our building and broke her wrist. She couldn’t type while her arm was in a cast and her boss was an asshole who didn’t give two shits about a single mother struggling to make ends meet. He fired her a week before Christmas.” She took a steadying breath. “We were in dire straights, couldn’t afford rent, gas, groceries. She was desperate.”

She took another swig from her glass, hand trembling, teeth clanking against the crystal. “She slept with our landlord to buy more time to pay. I think that opened the door, made her aware of the possibility of earning money with her body.” She straightened, pressing down into the cushion, desperate to alleviate the mounting tension, the deeply-rooted ache. “She said she would only turn tricks until she was able to perform office work again. But the cast came off and she never stopped.”

She rolled the delicate stem between her fingers, palms sweating. “I was ashamed of her. Embarrassed. And swore to become nothing like her.” She gazed down at the remaining pool of ruby in her glass, her reflection distorted within the liquid, stretched grotesquely. “I have a lot of regrets in this life. But that’s my biggest one.”

He tilted his head, studying her stricken visage. “Following in her footsteps?”

She shook her head, gaze lifting. “No. Not being able to apologize.” Her heart skipped painfully. “I finally understand.” Her jaw worked from side to side, the remaining words stuck to her tongue. She pried them free. “I wish I didn’t. But I do.”

He held his body with such stillness he was rendered to marble in the moonlight, transformed into a Greek statue, Ovid's myth playing out before her very eyes.

“I appreciate you sharing that with me, Lavender.” Her body throbbed at hearing her given name on his lips, the rumbling cadence of his voice sending vibrations into the floor, through the couch and directly into her center. “But that was your mother’s story. Not yours.”

A sweltering beat.

She clutched her glass tighter. “I know.”

His golden gaze flickered down to her hands, sparking with electricity. “Finish your wine.”

She did as bid without hesitation, emptying the contents in a single gulp. He took the glass from her nerveless grip and set it on the floor beside them. And then he stood, movements so fast and graceful she hardly saw him unfold from his seat. She leaned away, craning her neck to maintain his burning gaze, acquiescing silently as he held out a hand for the third time that evening, effortlessly pulling her to her feet.

She swayed forward and leaned into the hard wall of his chest, overcome by the burning heat of his skin, causing the flames trapped within her own flesh to snap and sizzle. The lapping heat climbed higher, desperate to claw free and consume everything in sight. He cupped her face and tilted her head back. And then their lips collided and the mounting pressure within her exploded at last. She grabbed handfuls of his coat, pulling him forward as his hands roamed her body, fingers pressing hard, bruising and relentless. Their teeth clanked, mouth starved, feral, desperate to devour the other whole.

A distant voice whispered in the back of her mind, mysteriously familiar, telling her this wasn't right. Beyond the raw, gnashing hunger that overtook her in a matter of seconds and the raging inferno threatening to consume them both, there was still the unsolvable enigma of the man before her. The mystery of why _her_. Why _any_ prostitute when his looks and wealth afforded him the company of real-life Princesses.

In Lavender’s brief but varied experience, when men of power and means bought their pleasure they were buying silence as well, usually in an effort to protect their reputations. Their careers, their families. But other times… other times they harbored a far more sinister intent.

Some men were so disillusioned by their wealth they sought pleasure in the extreme, craving eccentric perversions that required an agreement of secrecy. She’d seen the aftermath of such contracts countless times. Girls sporting blackened eyes and broken limbs for weeks following their fateful encounters, swearing up and down the money was worth the pain and terror, the humiliation and aggravation, the haunting fear that lingered in their gaze long after the marks faded and the flesh healed–

Her rampant musings broke apart as he began to lower the zipper on her dress, the thin material parting smoothly across her spine. Cool air met her overheated skin, causing her to go rigid in his hold and pull back from the kiss. He grabbed the back of her neck with his other hand, fingertips pressing her pulse as his hot breath panted against her swollen lips. His pupils were blown wide, the thin band of amber barely visible.

She opened her mouth to speak but instead choked on a gasp as he pushed a thin strap from her shoulder, prompting the other to slide free and the rest of the dress to follow suit, hitting the floor in a pool of shimmering silk. She reared back, trapped in place by his tight grip, and raised her hands to cover her breasts. He caught one of her wrists and gently pulled it away, shaking his head.

“You’re utter perfection,” he whispered against her parted lips.

She swallowed heavily, then moaned as the hand at her nape began a coaxing caress down her bare spine, pressing her lower back and pushing her fully against his body. He leaned forward, mouth intent on possessing her own, but she turned her face away and inhaled swiftly, lungs starved. “The window,” she whispered, glancing at the brightly-lit city just beyond her shoulder.

His low laughter rumbled beside her ear, setting loose another series of tremors through her frame. And then his mouth lowered, teeth grazing her shoulder, her throat, her jaw.

“Shy?”

She clenched her thighs at his gravel-filled voice and then keened sharply as his hand slid between her legs, cupping her sex through its thin covering, palm hot and possessive.

“You’re artwork, Lavender… artwork is meant to be seen. Meant to be worshipped.”

The soft pads of his fingertips pushed the fabric aside and traced along her seam, gathering her wetness, and then they were pressing in, a thick digit sliding past her clenching heat, then another, kneading her delicate walls and stretching her passage. She gasped into his mouth, vision clouding as his blunt nails scraped along the innermost parts of her, sparks of electricity zapping through her limbs and behind her lids, setting her skin ablaze.

The hand at her back pushed forward while the one inside pressed up until she was forced onto her tiptoes, gasping into his mouth as he began walking towards the window, holding her flush against him as she staggered back blindly, gripping his arms for balance, lost to the molten heat. And then her back was colliding against a hard, cold surface and his fingers were slipping out of her, a thick trail of wetness stringing down her inner thigh. She opened her mouth, moaning her protest at the loss of contact before he gripped her hips and spun her around. She gasped, bracing her palms against the massive window as he pressed her forward with a hand between her shoulder blades, the other tearing her underwear down her thighs.

Her fingertips curled, nails scraping the glass as she heard him unbuckle his pants, protests dying on her lips as raw hunger overtook her senses, mind shutting down in the wake of visceral need. She peered down at the sparkling cityscape, watching cars zoom through the streets and pedestrians roam the pavement hundreds of feet below while her naked body stood on full display, backlit by the glittering chandelier. And then large hands were fondly her breasts, thumbs roughly grazing her nipples before skimming past her ribs and down her sides, tightly gripping her waist as thumbs pressed against the edges of her spine, fingertips gripping the slope of her pelvis.

A rigid heat prodded at her opening. He kicked her ankles apart with the toe of his shoe and she squirmed with anticipation, mouth parting wide and head tipping back as he drove into her at last, meeting little resistance beyond the tight heat of her saturated entrance. She moaned low and guttural, clawing frantically at the slick glass as he gripped her waist in an iron-clad hold and set a driving, relentless pace. The room quickly filled with her broken sobs and the deafening slap of skin as he bottomed out with each thrust, pelvis brutally slamming her ass and driving her forward until her breasts smashed flat against the cold pane. She turned her head to the side and panted desperately, breath steaming the glass.

His hands slid to her hips, gripping her flesh by the handfuls as he tugged her ass further back, forcing her spine to dip and arch until he had her positioned just how he wanted, the new angle allowing him even deeper entrance, until his length prodded the back of her womb and ignited an even fiercer blaze inside her. She clenched her sex repeatedly, unable to control her muscles as her lower half spasmed violently, overtaken by raw animalistic need, content to be bent and rutted until she couldn’t support her own weight. She gasped as he released a thunderous growl, the resonating tremor shaking the wall and vibrating the pane beneath her palms. He released one hip to grip her by the hair, pulling her back against his chest in a powerful tug, the sweat of their bodies snapped and sizzled on contact, and then his mouth was at her shoulder, teeth bearing down without warning.

She keened, a sharp sting erupting beneath the blunt edges of his teeth. This wasn’t a playful nip. This was a predator’s jaws trapping her in place, pressing down down down until the skin parted beneath the onslaught, blood welling up to meet his lapping tongue. She cried out, overwhelmed and overtaken, but not by pain or fear. As a bead of red ran down the length of her trembling arm an earth-shattering sensation tore through her body, starting at her core and working its way into every finger and toe, more powerful than any orgasm she’d ever experienced with a partner or by her own hand. Her vision flashed white, then black, the ground parting beneath her feet and casting her into freefall, the restraining arm around her middle her only anchor to the surface. She gasped for air and collapsed into the glass, lost to the blissful heat, the rhythmic clench and release of her muscles as the throbbing pressure of his cock stretched her wide. He continued to fuck her without pause, each powerful thrust amplifying the rapture tenfold until she was boneless with pleasure, waxen by the scorching blaze.

And then his head lifted, teeth pulling from her skin. Blood coated his tongue and lips as he pressed savage open-mouth kisses to her neck, free hand wedging between her stomach and the glass, sliding up between her breasts to wrap around her throat and force her head back. Their eyes met. His gaze was completely black. Inhuman. Utterly captivating. She turned lax in his hold, weakened by the sheer power and force of her body’s release. He pulled out of her, heavy erection pressing against her lower back, throbbing in time to his rapid heartbeat.

“As much as I love showing you off to the mortals below, I believe a bed will suit our needs much better.”

She was too far gone to comprehend the words or formulate a response, giving over completely to his hands as he peeled her limp body away from the glass. He dipped low, sweeping an arm behind her knees and rising swiftly with her in his arms before striding for the archway with single minded-determination. A powerful surge of heat washed over her in a heady rush, as though it had never been quenched at all. She reached for his face without hesitation or fear, pulling his head down for another searing kiss as they entered the hallway, submerged into darkness.

* * *

Tom continued his brisk path across the street, eyes fastened to the modern high rise dominating the city block. He paused in the empty lane, allowing a horse-drawn carriage to pass. The braying creature eyed him warily, steps faltering as it drew near. The driver blinked, trying to right the animal’s course to no avail. The horse whined sharply as it darted past, the carriage wheel scraping along the curb as it surged forward, swinging wide as the animal rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

Tom set his jaw. Just fantastic. He was obviously emitting an air of danger beyond his control. He did his best to conceal his true nature in public venues. Humans were much more easily managed when they weren’t screaming their bloody heads off and running for their lives. But alas, he had no hope of managing his faculties following the events of the last hour. His gums still throbbed, fangs slow to recede after he’d fled through her window like a common criminal. But he needed to put distance between himself and the clever little human. Needed time to regroup, to disseminate the new information he’d discerned from the brief and charged encounter.

To unravel the burning mystery that was Hermione Granger.

He continued across the street, stepping onto the sidewalk and passing a row of vibrant redbuds, reliving the bizarre interaction in his mind yet again, starting from the moment she first opened the front door. She was nothing he expected, in any sense of the word. Based on her reputation at the Met he’d anticipated someone at least twice her age. But his surprise at her youth was quickly cast aside by the overwhelming cloud of her _scent_. The fragrance overruled his higher functioning for the span of several heartbeats, leaving him a shell of raw hunger and need. If not for his inability to cross the threshold he was certain he would have drained her on the spot, and for the first time ever he was grateful for the ancient curse, the impenetrable barrier allotting him a few blessed moments to gather his sanity and regain control.

Still, her smell was a burdening distraction. The remnants of her scent left behind on the clipboard paled in comparison to the rich fragrance of her warm skin and surging blood, heightened by her rising fear and desire. It had been decades since he’d encountered a mortal so tempting.

He shook his head, crossing to the building’s entrance.

No. He'd never encountered anyone so divine. Otherwise, he'd have turned them simply for the indulgent pleasure of opening a vein whenever he saw fit. His fingers tensed around the handle, threatening to warp the metal. He took a deep breath, releasing the air in a rush as he opened the door and stepped into the opulent lobby, forcing his mind to the relevant topic at hand. His reason for visiting the unassuming brownstone in the first place.

The Relic.

He’d sensed it nearby the moment he reached her stoop. He had yet to glimpse the object in person but could feel it all the same, an electrical current pulsing along his skin in heavy waves the moment he crossed the threshold. He knew it was nearby. And he knew the young woman was hiding it. But to his great frustration, he hadn't been able to extract the information the simple way. He wasn't surprised she was able to twist free his mental hold within moments. Intelligent and resilient minds were always much more difficult to control, and he certainly hadn’t been at peak performance, storming the gates on an empty stomach, foolishly thinking he would be in and out of the property within minutes when gaining an invitation inside had been a taxing feat in itself.

Playing to her emotions had been simple enough. Despite her keen intelligence, she was ruled primarily by her heart, as most mortals were. Her quivering assistant at the museum informed Tom about her father's condition and the reason for her recent part-time status. He’d rejoiced at the news, formulating a sob story in his mind that all but guaranteed her invitation into her home was signed, sealed and delivered.

Still, there had been a moment of hesitation in her eyes, a flash of realization that left his muscles tensing, mind rapidly constructing a new plan of attack. But in the end she'd relented to his bidding against her better judgment, a fault widely prevalent in her gender. The fatal desire to please all others, even strangers, to always do as told. The female was the more aggressive and dangerous sex in nearly every predatory species on earth. He couldn’t fathom why humans conditioned their daughters any differently. A great folly on their part, one he seized full advantage of whenever it suited his purposes.

He strode across the gleaming Italian marble, hands tucked into his pockets and curled tight as he passed the large entry desk.

“Good evening, Sir,” a familiar voice spoke.

Tom continued to gaze ahead, cutting a path through the lounge area.

“Good evening, Finnbar.”

“Beautiful weather we’re having.”

Tom fought to keep his composure, the elderly man’s weak heartbeat deafening to his ears. “Indeed,” he replied without inflection.

The attendant smiled and took his seat behind the desk, joints popping loudly. The frail man was one of the few humans Tom had yet to fantasize about rending limb from limb. He refused to let his crippling hunger get the better of him. Discreet and reliable help was impossible to come by these days.

He stopped before the row of silver elevators, pushing the button and studying his reflection in the doors. His gaze drifted to his shoulder, dark jacket cast grey with crumbled plaster. He casually flicked a chunk of lingering debris from the fabric, the corner of his lips turning up.

An interesting evening indeed.

The lift to his right chimed, the doors gliding open smoothly. He stepped inside, hands interlaced at his back as he faced the lobby, staring ahead at a row art deco sculptures as the doors closed and he began his ascent, mind drifting once more.

She smelled human.

He wet his lips, tilting his head to either side to alleviate the growing tension in his neck.

Correction. She smelled like sex and dinner… but perfectly mortal nonetheless.

And yet clearly there was something he missed. She’d thrown him through the air with easy grace, a task few of his own kind were capable of. His superior lineage came with as many rewards as consequences, but it was all reduced to child's play in her hands.

He studied his reflection in the doors once more.

Then again, she appeared as shocked by the turn of events as he felt, as though she didn’t know her own strength… And her skin. Radiating like a beacon in the dark, the moon in a starless sky. There was only one explanation. Only one that made sense, given all the circumstantial evidence surrounding her. The reason he could sense the relic but couldn’t find it. The reason he was able to pin her against the wall in one instant and was catapulting through the air in the next.

It seemed Ms. Granger had done more than simply handle the relic. And if his suspicions were true, then she was far more valuable than the jar itself. But most significantly, and far more importantly, she was his. Same as everything else in this godforsaken city.

She just didn’t know it yet.

The car slowed to a halt, rocking gently before the doors slid wide, revealing a long and narrow corridor. His spine straightened, shoulders drawing back as a familiar scent washed over him. It filled the air like a toxic poison cloud, sickly sweet with death. He was halfway down the hall when the door at the other end opened, his General appearing on the other side, face tense. He opened his mouth but Tom silenced him with a severe look.

“Where,” he bit out, arms tensing.

The man moved swiftly aside, closing the door at his back. “Your bedroom.”

Tom closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose as he made his way through the living room to the hallway beyond.

“Of course,” he muttered, red seeping into the corners of his vision.

Moonlight filtered through the windows, walls awash with the glow of city lights from eight hundred feet below. The distant hum of traffic and voices faded away as he strode into the adjoining hall, senses filled instead by a muffled heartbeat from beyond the double doors at the far end. He gripped the handles with force and pushed the barrier wide, ready for the interaction to end before it even began.

His gaze immediately found her, sprawled on her back across the center of his four-poster bed, torso propped on her elbows and dark eyes gleaming. She bent a knee, bare skin revealed by the wide slit in her black gown, stiletto spikes pressing the plush cushion of his bedding.

His jaw clenched. “Get out.”

She tipped her head back and laughed, exposing the long pale column of her throat. Her plunging neckline pulled taut across her cleavage, an acorn-sized ruby glittering from its permanent home between her breasts. She wet her lips, mouth painted a deep berry hue for the unjoyous occasion, and lowered her chin with measured ease. “And here I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

He dismissed her from his sight as he headed for the closet on the opposite wall. Her voice never failed to induce a pounding ache in his skull. It seemed tonight was no different. “I’ll be happy to see you depart. Now piss off.”

She hummed low in her throat, rolling onto her stomach to continue tracking his movements. “I could listen to you curse my name for all eternity, darling, as long as I get to hear that _delicious_ accent of yours.” She perched her head on her hands, nails filed to lethal points and painted the same rich wine as her lips. “How fortunate your time in America hasn’t diminished it.”

He opened the door to the walk-in closet but remained positioned outside, wanting to keep her in his peripheral. “I’ve been in this country longer than you’ve been alive, luv.”

She blinked coyly, expression of demure innocence undercut by her kohl-lined eyes and dagger-tipped nails. “Meaning?”

He shrugged out of the plaster-caked jacket. “Meaning I’m not going to indulge your petty and childish bullshite tonight. I’m in charge of the City.” He reached for a hanger, meeting her narrowed gaze over his shoulder. “You don’t have to like it. But you _will_ accept it and you _will_ obey me. Do you understand?”

She tilted her head, the blunt edge of her swing bob grazing her collar bone as she grinned wickedly. “The homicidal longing in your voice makes me positively _vibrate_. The way it deepens and rumbles. Utterly divine.”

He shook his head in exasperation, forcibly jamming the hanger back into its spot and slamming the door.

She licked her lips. “Have you eaten? You’re always a right bastard when you’re hungry.”

He drew a hand over his face, patience fully depleted. “What do you want?”

She pushed back onto her knees, smirk widening. “I’m happy to offer you my vein.” The ruby glinted brightly, gold chain catching the light. “Unless you’ve _actually_ developed a taste for filthy vagrants.”

He ignored her goading, turning away and heading for the windows. She rolled her eyes in turn, expression falling as she dropped back into the pillows with a dramatic sigh. “Christ, you’re an absolute _bore_ tonight.”

He raked a hand through his hair, a white cloud of dust disrupted by the motion. He glared at his palm. Fucking hell. How much of her bloody wall did he take home with him?

His unwelcome guest tilted her head, amusement etching her sharp features. “Though it appears you’ve had quite the evening already. Do tell me who dropped a house on your head, darling. I simply _must_ buy them a drink.”

“Bella.” Her smile melted away at the glacial edge in his voice. He met her reflection’s gaze in the thick pane before him. “Enough games. Why are you here?”

She draped her arms over the pillows and leaned against the headboard, crossing her legs, dress tugging high on her thigh. “Why must my appearance always inspire suspicion? We’re business associates. I merely came to update you on the Club.”

He held her gaze. “If you continue to lie to me I’ll end this conversation by throwing you out the window.”

She sighed once more, rolling her eyes. “Fine.” She crossed her arms petulantly. “Father said you’ve been avoiding his calls.”

He couldn't suppress his cringe, awarding her the reaction she clearly hoped to elicit with her farce of an endearment. Her eyes gleamed triumphantly, voice laced with sinister pleasure. "He wants to know if there's trouble with the package."

He turned on his heel, pinning her with the full intensity of his glare. “Since when do you talk about such matters behind my back?”

Her eyes flashed. “We love talking behind your back. Your backside is positively my _favorite_ side.”

He rolled his head atop his shoulders for the second time that evening. The tension rapidly spread, muscles clustering tight throughout his neck and back. “I’ll talk to him,” he said at last, hands curling like claws. “We’re done here.”

Her smile faltered, arms dropping as she searched his expression for a more satisfying response. “ _Is_ there a problem with the package?”

He raised a dark brow. “And why would you think to ask me that?” He watched her carefully, taking in every reaction.

She pushed forward, expression lit with eager anticipation. “It’s here then?” She slid to the edge of the mattress and swung her legs over the side. “May I see it?”

He stepped back, gesturing to the open doorway. “Goodnight, Bella.”

She scowled, rising to her full height, heels clicking sharply across the hardwood as she approached. “You may be his favorite son.” She stopped directly before him, tipping her head back to maintain his gaze. “But I’m his favorite daughter. _Don’t_ underestimate my power or influence, Tom.”

He tilted his head and scanned her face with flippant dismissal. “When you no longer run around the city as his little errand girl I _might_ consider taking you seriously.”

Red bled across her dark gaze, fangs lengthening. And then a faint rustling drew both their focus to the hall. She peered past his wide shoulder, face splitting in a feral grin.

“ _Speaking_ of errand boys…” Her fangs receded as she crossed the threshold, hips swaying down the hall before stopping in front of the man situated at the far end. She placed a hand on his chest, laughing as his eyes remain fixed ahead, body rigid as stone. “ _Always_ a pleasure, Brax.” She drew her hand along his ribs before grasping the mink stole hanging off his extended arm, winking as she wrapped it around her shoulders. “My, my, Tommy certainly keeps your leash strung tight, doesn’t he?”

Abraxas broke from his frozen state, pale eyes flickering down, cold as death. “Have a wonderful evening, Bellatrix.”

She tipped her head back and laughed anew, the venomous sound causing both men to tense. And then she stepped forward, leaning up to peck the man on the cheek, much to his dismay. He drew back swiftly, nearly colliding with the wall in his haste to escape her reach. Her laughter deepened as she started for the main room, clearly overcome with delight. Tom moved forward swiftly, passing Abraxas and rounding the corner in a single beat.

“Bella.”

She paused in the middle of the room and turned in place, expression lit with unbridled amusement.

His eyes narrowed, flames dancing at their center. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the sudden rise of missing humans, would you?” He watched her carefully once more, this time for an entirely different set of reasons. Alas, the tempo of her heartbeat remained the same, as did her Cheshire grin.

She held his gaze across the great expanse, voice laced with malevolent glee. “And why would you think to ask me that?”

Hearing his own words parroted back only confirmed his gnawing suspicions. He raised his chin, eyes darkening. “If I find out you’re connected in any way, the consequence will be severe.”

She licked her lips and raked her gleaming claws through the thick stole, undeterred by his menacing threat. “Careful, Tommy. It almost sounds like you’re starting to take me seriously.” And then she blew a kiss, eyes glittering. “Until next time, big brother.”

His stomach clenched as she made her grand exit, the door slamming loudly at her back, the echoing click of her heels fading at the elevators. The lift chimed, he listened to her board, and then the car started its smooth descent.

Abraxas sagged in relief, stepping free of the hall. “Do you think she has the relic?”

Tom's eyes remained fixed upon the front door, the presence of their unwanted visitor still thick upon the air, tinging the room in a dark haze. "I know she doesn't."

Abraxas blinked, studying his profile. “What changed your mind?”

Tom turned away from the entrance and started for his bedroom, lips curving up beyond his control. “The nation’s leading Egyptologist.”

* * *

Parvati’s nose twitched as she tilted the palm in her hand, spreading his fingers back with her thumb.

“Your travel line is strong. Do you take many trips?” She asked, tone decidedly bored.

The man seated across the narrow table leaned closer, causing it to rock on its rickety legs. “Just got promoted. Acquired three new sales territories.” He winked, lips spreading in a pleased grin. “Came with a hefty bump in pay as well. I’m flush.”

She bit back a sigh, as she’d been doing since the finely dressed idiot wandered into the small establishment ten minutes prior. “I see.” She continued to peer down, refusing to meet his wolfish gaze. “Well, that aligns with your head line.” She traced said groove with her thumb, ignoring the hitch in his breath as he leaned closer yet. “Deep and long. You have great focus and determination.”

His eyes skimmed her face with careful precision. “I’m determined alright.” He cast his voice lower. “And _very_ good at getting what I want.”

She set her jaw, eyes narrowing as she squeezed the hand in her grip, nails pressing the skin. “Your heart line is waved and begins beneath your middle finger.” She finally drew her gaze up, careful to keep her expression free of the acidic derision burning a path up her throat. “You’re selfish when it comes to love. More interested in cheap thrills than commitment.”

He blinked, drawing back at her cool tone. But the heat quickly reignited in his gaze, eyes shimmering with clear purpose. “Who says the thrills have to be cheap?”

She gazed back down, swallowing her groan. “Your life line is short and shallow.” Her lips twitched as he stiffened in his seat. “And broken in the middle.” She released his hand, tucking her own beneath the red tablecloth and wiping them on the gauzy fabric of her skirt, eager to be rid of his taint upon her skin. He left his palm flat on the counter, brows drawn with confusion.

“What the hell does that mean?” He demanded.

She held his gaze steady, voice firm with resolve. "You're going to suffer a tragic accident. Best to take care, especially when venturing into less savory parts of the city."

He leaned back swiftly, nearly tipping back in his chair as his face twisted in a scowl, color heightening. “Is that a threat?”

She lifted her chin, smiling. “Of course not. It’s your fortune.”

He gripped the edge of the table with both hands, baring his teeth as the flush bled into his forehead and neck, giving him the appearance of a cartoon steam engine. “You made all that up. This is a fucking scam!”

She tipped her head calmly, relishing his rising anger, eager to inflict even a morsel of the agony trapped within her own heart onto someone else. “I merely interpret the lines. You don’t have to like the message.”

The table rattled in his grip. “I’m not paying you a fucking dime.”

Her smile fell away, eyes narrowing. “And I don’t want your money. Get out.”

He snarled, pushing to his feet and stepping towards her, veins throbbing in his temples and neck. “You little bitch–”

“You should return home, Martin Everett.”

He froze in place, glancing up as a new voice entered the room, soft and delicate as wind chimes. He spotted a narrow figure in the doorway ahead, concealed by a beaded curtain.

“Your wife is waiting up, wondering where you are. Such stress is dangerous during the third trimester.”

He blinked, paling. “How did…” He stepped back, fists loosening at his sides as he gaped at the shadowed figure. “How do you know my name?”

Parvati scowled and folded her arms, metal bracelets clinking. “You saw the sign on the door.”

He glanced down at her, anger seeping back into his ruddy features. “Tell me how she knows my name!” He gazed forward again, face twisted with rage and panic. “How do you know about my wife?”

The figure in the doorway tipped its head, long hair revealed in the dark silhouette. “Is this the type of behavior you want to teach your unborn son?”

He swallowed thickly, the serene voice seeming to echo off the narrow walls for another handful of seconds before he found his voice. “Who…”

Parvati pushed back from the table, chair scraping across the floor. “You got your free reading. Now _leave_.”

He blinked. And then met her gaze, senses slowly returning. He backed up several paces and straightened his coat, pinning her with a look of disgust. “I suppose I should count my blessings. Filthy fucking immigrant, you're probably crawling with disease.”

She drew in a sharp breath, pushing to her feet, hands bracing the table.

“Sabine,” the voice behind her spoke in clear warning.

Parvati grit her teeth, forcing her feet to remain in place as she watched the stinking pile of shit leave the shop. The bell above the door chirped as it closed behind him, the air feeling cleaner already. She sighed heavily, tearing the cumbersome turban from her head and glaring over her shoulder.

“I had it under control.” She threw the headpiece down, nearly knocking over a foggy crystal ball in her haste. “You _didn’t_ have to come out.”

Pale hands lifted, parting the beads down the center. “He was going to hurt you.”

Parvati watched the other girl step into the main room. “He’s a spineless pissant.”

“Yes. And his shortcomings make him lash out at women he deems inferior.” The woman tipped her head, pale hair cascading over her shoulder in a flowing river as her eyes took on the same cloudy quality of the crystal ball. “He seeks the company of prostitutes for the sole purpose of injuring them during the act.”

Parvati drew back, brows creasing at the center. “You saw all that in your head?”

The blonde blinked, eyes returning to their normal state, sparkling like blue topaz. “Yes.”

Parvati gripped the back of her chair, shaking her head. "Christ, Luna. Every time I think I'm jealous of your gift…you remind me what a curse it really is.” She watched her friend cross the narrow shop floor. “I don’t know how you stay sane, seeing such awful shit play out in your mind every day.”

Luna stopped before the shelves, licking her thumb and forefinger and pinching the ends of the burning incense. “It’s not all bad. There’s great beauty in the world as well.”

Parvati’s laughter billowed free in a cloud of bitter smoke. “In the world? Maybe. But certainly not in people.”

Luna peered over her shoulder, expression smooth as a placid lake. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Parvati cringed at the harshness in her tone, crossing her arms tightly and gazing at the threadbare rug.

Luna lifted a pale brow. “You’ve been on a short fuse all night.”

“That asshole really pushed my buttons.”

“You’ve dealt with far worse clients than him.”

Parvati forced her eyes up. “Can’t you just read my mind?”

The blonde turned gracefully on her heel, facing her fully. “Is that what you want?”

Parvati swallowed, nails digging into course sleeves of her costume. “It would make things easier.”

Luna held her gaze in eerie silence for another endless beat. And then she glanced away, shaking her head. “I’d never violate your privacy in such a way. If you’d like for me to know something, you’ll tell me.”

Parvati blinked, arms dropping to her sides as a crushing weight sat upon her chest, pressing against her lungs. “You’re too good for this place, Luna.” She struggled to take a full breath. “Too good for this life.”

Luna peered at her once more, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Something happened between you and Lavender.”

Parvati drew back, colliding with a candle display, quickly settling the table with her hand. “I thought you weren’t going to read my mind.”

“I didn’t. You always talk this way when thinking about her.”

She released the table, spine snapping straight. "No, I..." The blonde held her gaze with calm patience. Parvati rolled her eyes, throwing her hands up. "Fucking Christ, I'm trying to lie to a psychic.”

“I don’t have to view your thoughts to know what’s on your mind.” Luna moved closer. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Parvati ground her teeth, glaring at the window ahead. “No.”

Luna nodded, starting to turn for the door. “Alright then. I’ll start locking up. Would you mind putting–”

“I just don’t understand how she can accuse me of judging her when I’ve _never_ said a single thing against her.”

Luna stopped in place, turning calmly, hands folded atop her flowing skirt.

Parvati shook her head, continuing to glare at the pane unseeing. "I've always been supportive– of _everything_ – no matter how dangerous or fucking stupid! And yet she has the _nerve_ to accuse me of being a terrible friend?” She began to pace the floor, hands gesticulating wildly. “If I were a terrible friend then I’d actually tell her what the hell I’m thinking! I’d tell her how much I hate her fucking job! How terrified I am every single night, wondering if she’s hurt or trapped or dead...”

She inhaled sharply, vision hazed, and rubbed a palm across her chest, a deep ache trapped beneath her breastbone. “But I don’t. I keep my mouth _shut_ and I grin and I nod and I let her do whatever the _fuck_ she wants because that’s how fucking fantastic I am at being a fucking fantastic friend!” She stopped at the edge of the rug, eyes wide and gleaming, panting furiously.

Luna continued to watch on from her corner of the shop, tone calm and gentle. “Do you feel better now?”

Parvati blinked, remembering the other woman’s presence. She flushed, smoothing her hands over her middle. “A little, yeah.”

The blonde nodded. “Good. Expressing emotions is healthy. Keeping them bottled inside is toxic to one’s mental clarity.” Her gaze remained penetrating. “It’s toxic to relationships as well.”

Parvati glanced up sharply, shaking her head. “If I said any of this to her she’d hate me forever.”

“It seems she already knows what’s in your heart regardless of words. Perhaps it’s the duplicity that upsets her. Saying one thing while thinking another. Honesty can be painful, but sometimes necessary.”

Parvati looked away, pushing her bangs aside and running a finger over her long braid. “I can't be honest with her. Not about this. She isn’t like us. Things don’t roll off her back.” She swallowed lightly, the ache deepening. “Lav’s sensitive. It would break her heart.” She shoulders drew tight. “I can’t bear to hurt her.”

“You can’t bear to lose her.”

Parvati turned her head, heart stuttering. Luna smiled softly. “But you won’t. She cares for you, Parvati. She wants your love, your acceptance.” Her chin lowered, eyes seeming to brighten. “She’s just as fearful of losing you.”

Parvati’s hands clenched at her sides. “She thinks I look down on her.” Her voice was thick, throat coated in a corrosive substance, making each word burn on release. “But I don’t. She’s the strongest person I’ve ever known. I could never think less of her. _Never_.”

Luna nodded, as though already knowing as much. “I think she would enjoy hearing that.”

Parvati’s vision suddenly hazed. She turned her head, wiping at her eyes and cursing the useless outpour. “Thanks, Luna.”

The blonde shifted at her back. “You’re very welcome.” By the time Parvati glanced forward her friend was halfway to the door.

“It’s getting late. We should close up,” Luna said, withdrawing a set of keys from her skirt pocket.

Parvati took a step closer, hands curling tightly. “Luna.” The girl stopped at the door, turning in place once more. Parvati wet her lips, voice tense. “You said that man hurts street girls?”

Luna’s pale gaze flickered, and for a moment Parvati thought she was in the midst of another vision. But then she blinked and all appeared normal.

“He looks for women in alleys and on corners. Lavender isn’t likely to cross his path,” Luna said, tone disturbingly unaffected.

Parvati's limbs turned to stone. "Not his." Her jaw ticked. "But there are others. Hiding behind tailored suits and glittering watches… just as violent as the drunks beating their wives in the slums."

A sweltering beat.

And then Luna nodded. “All creatures are dangerous in their own way. Lavender included.”

Parvati couldn’t contain her laugh, steeped in misery as it was. “Lavender couldn’t be dangerous if she tried.”

Luna lifted the keys and turned for the door. “You underestimate her.” The brass lock clicked loudly as she twisted the metal. “A feral hunger lies within all our hearts, waiting to tear free.” She turned the deadbolt by hand. “The hunger to survive. Turning each of us into a lethal predator.” And met Parvati’s gaze over her shoulder, pale eyes glowing in the darkness. “If properly provoked.”

* * *

Lavender opened her eyes.

And groaned, squeezing them shut as she lifted her head from the pillow, muscles screaming in protest. Her body was stiff, arms heavy as anvils as she attempted to press a hand to her throbbing temple. Her stomach clenched as she tried to sit, the pain nauseating. She collapsed back into the mattress, swallowing heavily, throat parched as she stared at the silk canopy above.

The room was dark, shadows cast by moonlight streaming in through the balcony doors. Her head continued to pulsate in time to her heart. She’d suffered many a hangover, but nothing like this.

She sensed a presence beside her and turned her head, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes from the effort. He laid beside her, facing away, the muscular wall of his back illuminated in the pale glow as he breathed steadily, deep asleep. She blinked, eyes tracing the claw marks marring his tanned flesh. Her stomach clenched again at the sight, prompting her to press her hands to her middle, biting back a cry. She’d never experienced such cramping, hungover or not.

_Oh, God, please don’t get sick._

The thought of throwing up in his marble covered washroom was too humiliating to bear. And yet… She lurched from the bed, stomach flip-flopping with the motion. Better the marble than the sheets.

She staggered naked from the mattress, cool air meeting her over-sensitized flesh. The feverish heat from earlier still lingered, though far less intense. She glanced around the floor, searching for her dress to no avail. She glanced back to the bed and cringed. The sheet was wrapped firmly around his legs and the comforter was too cumbersome to drag with her. But she _really_ didn’t fancy the prospect of running into the asshole butler completely starkers, assuming he was still on the premises. She couldn't remember seeing him later in the evening… then again, she didn’t remember much of anything about her evening. The events bled together like watercolors, impossible to carve out separately. All she knew for certain was that she didn’t want to see the uptight man again, little less in the buff.

She began spinning in circles, searching for anything of use–

Her heart leaped as she caught sight of a pale sleeve on the ground. She scurried on tiptoes around the bed, desperate not to wake her companion in her current state of nausea. She picked up his discarded dress shirt and slipped it on, cringing as the fabric glided across her arms and back. She paused, examining her limbs in the moonlight. The bite mark was larger than she anticipated. She’d barely noticed it while pressed against the window, consumed by raw fire. All she had felt was the pounding pressure inside her and the hands gripping her tight. But his teeth had left their mark alright, breaking cleanly through the skin.

She swallowed, deeply unsettled by the notion now that she was free of the lust-filled haze. She pulled the sleeves into place and drew a hand over the back of her hip, gasping softly at the sting her fingertips induced. Another bite. Received in the bedroom during their second round. And another mark adorned the back of her thigh, left sometime after their third session. She'd been bitten during sex before, but this was a far cry from the playful nips of adventurous lovers. Then again, she'd never met a man so virile. Surely such stamina wasn't natural...

She shook her head, pushing the thoughts aside and fumbling with the tiny buttons along the front, relieved to see the fabric covered her to mid-thigh. And then she set off through the open doorway, pressing a hand to her middle as her stomach churned anew. She paused at the start of the hall, either wall riddled with closed doors, prompting a sigh of frustration.

_Where do the rich hide their bathrooms?_

She started forward, grabbing the first handle.

Locked.

 _Shit_.

She crossed the floor to the opposite side, but the handle on the second door was equally frozen. She briefly considered waking him, asking for directions… The marks on her arm and back throbbed. She shook her head, checking the remaining doors before turning the corner and embarking into one of the grand rooms. As she crossed the floor the remaining aches and pains in her body blossomed to life. The moonlight illuminated her pale skin brighter than before, revealing the fingerprint bruises along her calves and forearms. Her heartbeat throbbed in her swollen passage. Every part of her felt like she’d run a marathon.

_I suppose I did._

Her stomach gurgled. She closed her eyes, taking a steadying breath.

_Don’t puke on the rug don’t puke on the rug…_

Her steps faltered as a floorboard creaked at her back. She gasped, spinning around. But only empty air met her gaze. She swallowed thickly, the motion getting caught in her throat, still painfully dry. She backed away slowly, eyeing the dark doorway she’d just emerged through, wondering if the butler was awake–

A cold breeze swept past. She rubbed absently at her arms, glancing to the window. The pane was shut tight. She shook her head, forcing aside her growing unease and continuing her path to the opposite archway.

When she felt the unmistakable sensation of eyes upon her.

She stopped again, spinning around a second time. But once more the room remained empty, filled with only moonlight and passing headlights from the road far below. She shifted from foot to foot, hands tightening on her arms.

“Hello?” she asked slowly, holding her breath.

Silence.

She stepped back, heart in her throat. Screw the washroom. She needed to find her clothes and leave. She’d worry about sorting out the payment later.

_Home. I want to go home._

Parvati’s face flashed through her mind unexpectedly, causing her intestines to squirm like a barrel of eels. She placed a hand to her mouth and spun to face the wall, willing the contents of her stomach at bay when her eyes were caught by a strange sight. The portrait hanging directly before her featured a young woman in an elaborate gown, gaze narrowed and fixed upon her. Lavender shifted to the side but the eyes remained steady. She shook her head.

_It happens with all portraits, idiot._

But the woman’s eerie gaze wasn’t what drew her attention. Rather, it was her arm, held aloft at her side, finger pointing to the left side of the frame. Lavender blinked, eyes automatically following the motion as though the stationary figure was directing her to something. And then her eyes fell on the portrait beside it.

She swayed back, heart skipping painfully. The young man in the neighboring frame stared at her from a handsome chiseled face, hand held aloft and pointing to the left as well. She rubbed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

_They’re just posing. It doesn’t mean anything…_

Her half-hearted assurances did nothing to alleviate her rising dread. And she could no longer deny the simple truth of the matter. Shit was getting weird.

She tore her gaze away, walking ahead with her shoulders drawn back, braced for whatever madness lie ahead, only to slow her steps a second later, unable to ignore the watchful eyes tracking her every movement. Her fists clenched tight, knees locking in place as her eyes flickered to the portraits hanging beside her once more. She'd inadvertently progressed in the direction they indicated, and the third painting in the row was no different from its predecessors. Another young man pointed to the edge of his baroque frame, eyes staring out from a haunted visage. She released a slow breath, trying to keep her racing thoughts contained, helpless to keep her feet from following his silent command.

Only to stop at the fourth frame.

This portrait was unlike the rest, featuring not a person but a landscape as its subject. The windows on the opposite wall cast bright moonlight across the massive canvas but did nothing to diminish the dark atmosphere the picture exuded. It was a heavily wooded terrain, the trees tall and narrow, twisted into grotesque shapes, their long branches petrified and dead. The sky was a stormy grey, as void of life as the forest beneath. She felt chills erupt along her arms and bare legs as her heartbeat echoed through her ears on an endless dizzying loop.

But what was most unsettling was the realism of the image, the stunning detail captured in every brushstroke. In fact, the longer she stared upon the portrait the more it seemed to come to life before her very eyes. The dead branches swayed in the same gentle breeze she felt ghost across her skin, dried leaves dancing along the forest floor as the raging sky churned above, treacherous dark cloud sweeping in. She held her breath, squeezing her eyes shut for the space of several stuttered beats before prying her lids open, muscles tensed.

The painting was lifeless once more, trees frozen in place, clouds flat and two dimensional. She shook her head, stepping back.

_I’m losing my mind._

She ran a hand over her sweat-slicked face.

_I must still be drunk…_

Not an appealing prospect, but certainly superior to madness. She started to turn away when her eyes fell upon the surrounding portraits. Their eyes remained fixed upon her with such intensity it was as though they were set to burst free of their canvases. A bead of sweat trickled down her nape, cold as death. She released her breath in a rush, hesitating beneath their watchful gazes. It was as if they were waiting for something. Almost like…

She turned her focus to the wooded landscape a second time.

_Like they want me to do something._

She spent no time reflecting on the sheer insanity of the notion, long past rationality. She stepped closer to the wall, studying it more closely, wondering what made this painting worthy of a place in his collection. She raised a hand, hovering it above the image, inexplicably terrified of touching it. So she reached for the frame instead, gripping the corner of the metal and gasping as it gave way at her touch. At first she thought the portrait was falling off the wall, but the center of the painting remained fixed as the corners rotated. She wet her lips, tugging a bit harder, jolting when a loud click sounded from behind the canvas.

And then the wall opened.

She turned rigid with shock, staring at the dark gap behind the exposed panel, stepping away to gaze fully upon the revealed doorway. The seam along the edges was nearly invisible, easily disguised by the sea of portraits. She started to step forward–

Only to rear back, hands raised against an invisible force drawing her in.

_This is crazy. You have no business going in there._

She took a steadying breath, arms dropping.

_Close the damn wall, find the bathroom and then find your dress._

Yes. Going home sounded marvelous.

And yet, for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom, she started forward once more, reaching for the panel and pulling it wide, revealing a short dark hallway and closed door at its end.

_Shut. The. Fucking. Wall._

She stepped into the narrow corridor, glancing over her shoulder to the empty room at her back, searching the shadowed corners for signs of movement.

_This is the most stupid thing you’ve ever done and that’s really saying something…_

She turned forward, progressing swiftly over the cold floor, pulse skipping in time to her hurried steps, reaching the door in a blur of seconds. Her hand hovered over the knob, a great weight pressing upon her chest.

_What am I doing?_

She separated from her body, hovering directly above it as she watched her fingers wrap around the handle, turning slowly and pushing the barrier in. It gave way without effort, the hinges silently bending to reveal a pitch black interior. And suddenly she was plummeting back into herself, staring through her own eyes and swaying in place, dizzy with vertigo. She placed a steadying hand to either side of the frame, inhaling sharply as her senses slowly returned.

She pushed back from the doorway and spun to face the hall, eager to put as much distance between herself and the darkness as possible when a gentle gust of wind hit across her back, blowing strands of her hair forward. She shook her head, refusing to look.

“ _Lavender_.”

She gasped, jolting a foot into the air before spinning in place… facing the dark swirling abyss with wide eyes. The disembodied whisper seemed to emanate from within the room.

“H-Hello?”

She cringed at her own stupidity.

_You imagined it you imagined it you imagined it..._

And if she didn't, she certainly didn't want to start conversing with it. But she felt the strange out-of-body sensation from before taking hold, mind splitting from her motor skills, her feet padding softly ahead of their own accord. The phenomena frightened her far more than the strange whisper. Yet surely the disturbing connections were interlaced, both symptoms of budding insanity.

_Marvelous. Something new and exciting to contend with._

And then her feet were crossing the threshold, submerging her into total darkness.

She came back to her senses a moment later, scrambling backward and colliding with the wall just beside the doorway, something hard prodding into her spine. She slid aside, fumbling for the light switch, gasping with fear and relief as light flooded the room at last, blinding her with white. She squinted, shielding her gaze from the overhead bulbs as her eyes adjusted, hazy shapes appearing. She held her breath, blinking rapidly as her vision cleared but the white remained.

Sheets. Covering nearly every surface.

The room itself was small and densely packed, items lining every wall. She assumed they were tables at first, but as she edged closer and pulled back a corner of pale fabric she saw a flash of gold. Frames. She dropped the material, glancing around once more, the rectangular outlines suddenly apparent. Portraits were stacked in rows and tilted against every bit of wall space. There must have been over a hundred.

_He told you there was artwork in storage._

Another breeze swept past, tugging at the hem of her shirt and the ends of her hair, drawing her gaze with it. The room bore no windows. But something _did_ catch her eye...

She blinked, gaze affixed to a standing portrait at the center of the room, covered like all the rest. But unlike its neighbors this one stood on an easel, raising it to eye-level. Her pulse throbbed in her wrists and knees as she drew closer and closer, standing directly before the canvas at last. She reached for the sheet, fingers hovering at the corner of the fabric as her vision dimmed at the edges. She gathered a handful of material, holding her breath as she slowly pulled it back–

“There you are.”

She screamed, releasing the fabric and colliding with a stack of portraits, flushing hotly as she met a familiar pair of amber eyes. She swallowed heavily, pressing a hand to her chest as her heart raced uncontrollably. “I’m so sorry,” she said without thought.

He raised a dark brow, tucking his hands into his pockets and stepping fully into the room. He wore loose cotton trousers and no shirt, muscled abdomen on full display and bearing scratches and bruises that caused her blush to deepen.

“You apologize far too much, Lady Brown.”

He started a measured path towards her. She drew back at his approach, only to breathe a sigh of relief as she saw the blatant amusement in his expression. She brought a hand to her arm instinctively, covering the area of his bite with her palm.

He followed the movement with gleaming eyes. “I was worried when I woke up to an empty bed.”

She tried not to fidget. “I didn’t want to wake you. I was feeling–”

“Hungry.”

She blinked. “No… I felt ill.”

He tilted his head, searching her face before stopping a few feet away. “And got lost looking for the washroom no doubt.”

She burned hotter yet, certain her face would catch flame at any moment. Her muscles tensed beyond her control, as though her body was preparing for something without bothering to clue her in on the plan.

“I…” she started, but she was too overcome by tonight’s events to construct a seamless lie.

He smiled, the rest of his body eerily still beyond the steady rise and fall of his chest. “It’s alright. I have nothing to hide.”

She quickly shook her head, gripping the covered frames at her back. “Of course not, I didn’t mean…” Her thoughts stuttered. She settled for something simple. “I shouldn’t have come in here.”

His eyes were unrelenting, swallowing her whole. “How did you find this room?”

She took a slow breath, opening her mouth but no words emerged.

His smile deepened. “I was right about you.”

She blinked, gripping the frames tighter. “Right about what?”

"You really do see the world differently. More than anyone could possibly know or appreciate."

She swallowed. “I don’t…”

He reached forward swiftly, brushing the hair from her shoulder. “Don’t be nervous. You’ve made it this far with your head held high, don’t cower now.”

She blinked again, pressing further back, a prickling sensation erupting along her nape and down her spine, electrifying her.

“What do you–”

“Did you look beneath the sheet?” He gestured to the standing portrait beside them.

Her thoughts surged and collided, folding in on themselves until the only concept she could grasp was fear. She released a slow breath, voice barely above a whisper. “No.”

He leaned in, speaking low, as though conveying a secret. “Would you like to?”

Her arms drew taut as she gripped the metal frames with all her strength. “Actually, I should be going.” His resounding silence echoed through her head, more deafening than her own heartbeat. She tried to force a smile, failing miserably. “I’ve had a wonderful time, but the hour is late and–”

“Lift the sheet, Lavender.”

She blinked, vision spotting as tears filled her gaze. “I don’t want to.”

He licked his lips. “Yes. You do.” His eyes flickered rapidly between hers. “They all do.”

She held her breath, pushing away from the wall with every intent of sprinting for freedom. Yet her feet remained firmly planted, body swaying precariously with the heavy throb of her arteries. She blinked twice as he drew closer, effectively closing off her escape route.

“Go ahead.” He gestured with his chin, eyes unnaturally bright. “Look.”

_I don’t want to look. Please don’t make me..._

But she lifted her hand all the same, eager and desperate to leave, willing to do whatever it took to appease him. She bit her lip and gazed at the covered portrait, grabbing the edge of the sheet once more.

She took a deep breath and pulled, wrenching it off the canvas in a single tug, ready to get the unnerving task over with. The painting came into view. She gasped, dropping the fabric and staggering back, screaming outright when her back collided with a warm wall of flesh. He stood behind her. She never saw him move…

He grasped her arms in an iron grip, holding her captive before the image, trapped in the midst of the sinister energy it emitted, raking across her skin like static, coiling around her limbs like vines. He lowered his head, lips at her ear. “Everyone has a story. I won’t let yours be forgotten.” She tried to wrench forward but he pulled her back, spine pinned to the solid wall of his chest. “Shh, it’s alright, pet.”

She screamed, throat scorched raw by the effort, the sound cut off abruptly as a large hand grasped her neck, squeezing her airway shut. She gasped and sputtered, thrashing wildly, clawing at the restraining hand as his other arm looped around her waist and pressed until she was certain her pelvis would break. He continued speaking softly in her ear as she fought for her life. "No more pain. No more suffering." White spots appeared before her vision, muscles seared by fire, screaming out for oxygen. "Your beauty won't go to waste."

She clawed at his forearm, nails caked red with his blood, head swelling like a balloon, the pressure so immense she was certain her eyes would pop out of their sockets and roll across the floor.

“You’ll live on forever, Lavender.”

Her feet went cold, legs numb, strength leaving her all at once. He sank with her to the floor, hand squeezing tighter, but the pain was less. The lights were less. Everything was less.

Her arms went limp next, falling useless to the ground as tears overflowed her bloodshot eyes, soaking into her hairline. The cold spread higher and higher as though she was sinking into an ice lake. Her vision filled with white, only his smiling face visible at the center.

“Just as I promised.”

The words came from a great distance, their meaning lost to her fading mind. And then he disappeared from view. Her head sank beneath the dark water, the white dimmed to black.

And then there was nothing.

* * *

Hermione carefully sidestepped a pile of broken glass, accepting Harry’s offered hand as he helped her navigate a path down the debris-strewn alley. She’d insisted on coming with him to visit the lab, needing to see the evidence with her own two eyes to truly wrap her mind around what was happening. She’d witnessed something bizarre last night, but this morning it all felt like an intangible dream. Her office wall remained as broken as her memories, but viewing the corpse would solidify this new terrifying reality.

Harry had spent the remainder of the night sitting guard on her couch, as restless as she felt. She’d eventually gone into her father’s room and taken up residence in his armchair, watching him sleep while her mind warred against her, overcome with the evening’s many revelations.

Vampires.

Needless to say, she only breathed a sigh of relief the moment the sun broke the horizon. Harry had insisted the creatures couldn't expose themselves to the light. Still, it had been a harrowing feat leaving her father behind in Susan's keep. Hermione trusted the young woman whole-heartedly, but she doubted the stranger cared who he hurt on his path to get to her.

_“We’ll speak again soon, Hermione Granger.”_

His parting words rang through her ears, insistent as an alarm. She shook her head, desperate to dispel the lingering fear. Harry seemed to sense her unease, glancing sideways as they navigated around a busted crate.

“You okay?” he asked, voice measured with false calm.

She nodded quickly, tucking her hair behind her ear as she glanced their surroundings, desperate for a change in topic. "Yes, just shocked to see the state of things. The neighborhood has really gone downhill."

He continued to study her carefully. “Please tell me you haven’t come down here alone.”

She met his eye. “Of course not. I haven’t spoken to Nott since before you left.”

He nodded, gazing ahead with an expression of contentment. Her chest tightened, dark emotions rapidly surfacing.

“I’d _hoped_ he might reach out to me.” She pulled her hand from Harry’s grip, crossing her arms as they continued forward. “But it was just another dead end.”

“I’m sorry, Mione.”

“It was foolish to expect anything. Research hospitals have endless resources at their disposal and still can’t find a cure. Nott works out of a warehouse for Christ’s sake.”

“Still… he’s smart.”

She nodded, eyes fixed on the door ahead. “I know. But even the most brilliant minds need funding.” A heavy sigh escaped her lips. “I should know.” She blinked, glancing up as a flush stained her cheeks. “That sounded terribly conceited. I didn’t mean–”

“Relax, Mione, I know what you meant.” His grin was warm. “And you _are_ brilliant. I don’t know why you’re so reluctant to admit it.”

She smiled lightly, carefully leaping over a stack of rotting newspaper. “Perhaps I grew tired of hearing our schoolmates brag about their social pedigrees.”

His smile faded at once. “Fair enough. Malfoy certainly tossed around his father’s name with more precision than a fucking ball.”

She shook her head. “You’re never going to let that go are you?”

“He lost us the championship.”

“You were so hungover you couldn’t walk straight.”

“Maybe so. But I _threw_ straight, that’s what mattered.”

She rolled her eyes. “The two of you are impossible.”

He raised a dark brow, steps slowing as they approached the far wall. “Wait. Does that bastard still talk shit about me?”

The corner of her lips turned up as she came to a stop. “Let’s try and focus.”

His jaw tensed, emeralds glinting in his faceted gaze, but he let the subject drop, directing his attention forward. She squirmed anxiously as he pounded the side of his fist against the metal gate, the booming echo vibrating through her bones.

Her spine straightened as he sidled closer, casting his voice low. “Remember what we talked about.”

She swallowed, nodding shortly as footsteps sounded on the other side of the barrier. Locks slid free and then the door was opening, a familiar pale face appearing, outlined by eerie green light. His eyes narrowed on Harry first and then flickered to her, widening. "Granger."

She tipped her head in polite greeting. “Hello, Nott.”

He shifted back, continuing to stare at her unblinking. Harry glanced between them, raising a brow. Nott broke the silence at last. “I…” His mouth hung open for several beats. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Harry stepped closer, earning the other man’s attention. “I brought her to see the body.”

The words seemed to free Nott from his momentary lapse. He drew back, opening the door wide. “Of course. Come in.”

He shifted to the railing, allowing them room to pass, meeting her eye as she crossed the threshold. She read the conflict in his expression, surprised by his reaction but understanding it nonetheless. She nodded gently and knew her message was received as he breathed an obvious sigh of relief, shoulders relaxing as Harry entered next, seemingly oblivious to their silent exchange.

Nott closed the door and led the path down the narrow metal staircase. Hermione clung to the railing on either side, slowing positioning her heels atop each step as they descended. She stumbled on the last one, gasping with relief as Harry’s rapid-fire reflexes kicked in, strong hands grasping her waist from behind and steading her before she fell. She smiled in gratitude as she emerged on the lower level, watching in amusement as he hopped the last two steps and landed beside her with a boyish grin. He was ten-years-old again, and for just a moment everything was alright.

And then Nott cleared his throat, drawing her gaze forward and reminding her just how far from alright they all stood.

Harry shifted forward, glancing at a metal table in the center of the room covered in equipment. “Where is it?”

“Storage. I needed the counter space.”

She eyed the endless sea of beakers and Petri dishes, watching the colorful steam pour from the top of a bubbling mixture at the center of the mess. The scene was straight out of a gothic horror novel. She was transported back to her childhood for the second time in as many minutes, reminded of the many nights she and Harry avoided sleep by reading fantasy books by flashlight, huddled beneath the comforter. The memory invoked a strange pain in her chest, quickly dispelled as Harry pulled her attention back to the present with his next words. "What is all this? I thought you were focusing on the vampire?"

Nott cringed, shaking his head as he approached the center table. “These are all derived from the research subject.”

Harry rolled his eyes before stepping to the edge of the workspace, eying a row of blood cultures with disinterest. Hermione doubted he knew what he was looking at. “Didn't we clear this up last time?” he asked.

Nott scowled. “I’m not going to throw around that _utterly_ ridiculous term, Potter. Vampires aren’t based in reality. I intend to strip away the fantasy and expose the scientific truth behind whatever this condition truly is.”

Harry’s gaze narrowed but before he spoke Hermione stepped forward, hands tensed at her sides.

“He really burst into flame in the sunlight?” She asked tentatively, trying to keep her tone unaffected.

Nott met her eye swiftly… and smirked, clearly unfooled by her calm demeanor. “Would you like to see?”

She shared a loaded look with Harry. Then they both glanced forward, speaking in eager unison.

“Yes.”

.   .   .

They crowded the narrow landing, shoulders nearly pressing as they hovered before the door, Nott standing at the center with a thick glass plate in hand. A tissue sample sat at the center, bloody and ominous. His rubber gloves creaked loudly as he slid the lock aside, glancing to his left and meeting her eye.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded, adjusting her goggles and stepping back, allowing Harry room to shift forward and pull the barrier away.

Sunlight streamed in.

Her eyes fastened to the dish, mesmerized by the transformation already taking place. The skin sizzled and popped, rapidly blackening and curling in on itself before erupting into a powerful blaze. She gasped, leaping in place as the flames shot up, incinerating the small mass before dying out, leaving behind a mound of charred ash.

Hermione slowly glanced up, meeting Harry's wide gaze through the thick goggles, his expression largely mirroring her own. And then she glanced to Nott. He grinned maniacally, eyes glowing brightly.

“Brilliant,” he whispered, voice edged in awe.

Harry drew a hand over his mouth. “That’s not the word that comes to mind.”

Nott’s enthusiasm burned away as quickly as the fire. “It must be difficult having such limited vocabulary.”

Harry scowled, starting to respond but Hermione shifted closer, ignoring their exchange. “How is this possible?” she asked, still focused upon the dark ashes.

Nott looked up from the dish, sunlight reflecting in his gaze. “That’s what I intend to figure out.”

.   .   .

Minutes later they surrounded the metal table once more. Harry braced his hands along the edge while Hermione folded her hands before skirt, listening with attentive care as Nott gestured to each item in turn.

“I started with the blood. I was looking for possible explanations for the advanced coagulation that manifested within an hour of the host’s expiration.” He held her gaze from across the long workstation. “White and red blood cell count appear normal, but their walls are abnormally thick. I found this to be the case with the bone, skin and muscle samples as well, allowing the cells to survive an abnormal length of time.”

She blinked, heart skipping as she leaned forward, drawn by the mystery his words invoked. “Apoptosis?”

He raised a brow, eyes sweeping her face as though impressed. “That possibility had crossed my mind, but I was able to rule it out after extended observation. The cells _do_ eventually die…” The floor vibrated beneath her feet with the intensity of his words. “However, they don’t seem to age.”

She swayed back. “Age?”

“Programmed aging and cell death are two distinct processes. The cultures show no evidence of cellular senescence or DNA oxidation or methylation.”

She absorbed his words. “But that’s…” and shook her head, at a loss. “That’s impossible. All complex organisms age.”

Nott arched a dark brow. “This one seemed to have stopped.”

She drew in a slow breath, eyes drifting to the various beakers as he began a slow pace around the table.

“Which led me to perform amino acid dating.” He stopped before a metal contraption she’d never seen before. “Naturally I became curious about the age of our subject, and the state of his corpse upon arrival left few clues to shed light on the matter, pun intended.”

She couldn’t help but smirk at his ill-timed quip, shocked he was able to maintain a sense of humor in the midst of such brewing insanity. But her mood rapidly sobered as she took in the rest of his statement. “What was wrong with the body when it arrived?”

Harry crossed his arms, standing guard at his side of the table. “He looked like a shriveled cock.”

Hermione scowled, glancing at her friend with sharp disapproval. “ _Honestly_ , Harry.”

He met her narrowed gaze without shame. “That’s God’s honest truth.”

She shook her head, peering back at Nott. “Ignore him. Please continue.”

He did just that, focusing all his attention on Hermione. “ _As_ I was saying…” Harry rolled his eyes but offered no retort. “Based on the bone sample, the subject was approximately a century old at the time of his death.”

Hermione felt the blood drain from her head, swaying with the sudden rush. Harry seemed similarly affected, arms slowly dropping to his sides, voice barely above a whisper. "Fucking hell. They really are vampires." His emerald gaze alighted on the other man, who once again appeared supremely annoyed. "You can't be serious, Nott. Listen to your own goddamn words! We're dealing with a hundred-year-old creature that bursts into flames in the sunlight!"

“I already told you, I’m approaching this from a strictly scientific standpoint.”

“And what difference does that make? It doesn’t change what they actually are.”

“Perhaps not. But it _will_ help us understand how they work, and perhaps even how to combat the infection.”

Hermione stepped forward so quickly she nearly lost her footing. “Infection?”

Nott blinked, seeming to recall her presence. “Yes.” He turned to face her fully. “I believe the DNA is being altered by a virus originating in the white blood cells.”

Her eyes widened. “You’ve isolated it?”

“I’ve attempted to.” He gestured to the organized chaos spread out before them. “I’m still in very early stages obviously, but I’m trying to discern how the virus attacks healthy DNA and RNA.”

Her brows drew together, heart racing. “Using what as your control?”

“Mice.”

Harry pushed away from the table in a startling burst of motion, throwing up his hands. “This is ridiculous! We already _know_ what it does. We don’t need an army of vampire mice, we need a way to stop these bastards!”

Hermione swallowed, unsettled by this uncharacteristic hostility. “Harry, calm down.”

He rounded her, the gold surrounding his pupils seeming brighter than moments before. “I can’t calm down! You were _attacked_ , Hermione!”

Nott drew back, turning to her as well. “You were attacked by one of the infected?”

She sighed, drawing a hand through her hair. “Yes. Last night.”

Harry nodded, stepping towards the other man with his shoulders drawn back as though poised for a fight. “Which is why we need to know how to kill them when the sun is down.”

To his credit, Nott didn’t seem phased by the threat presented. In fact, he glanced away from Harry altogether, staring at the table with a faraway look in his eyes. “There’s more of them…” He rubbed a hand along his chin, eyes gleaming. “Which means it really _is_ a virus.” He smiled. “I was right.”

Harry scowled, stopping his approach with only a few feet to spare. “And we’re all very happy for you. But it doesn’t matter how they work, it only matters how they _die_.”

Nott’s head snapped up, gaze narrowed. “It’s all connected, idiot. I must understand the basics of how they operate to know how to _cease_ that operation.”

Harry’s fists clenched, prompting Hermione to leap forward, placing a staying hand on his arm as she attempted to redirect his focus.

“How did you stop the man in the park?” she asked quickly.

He blinked, tensing as he peered down at her. “A steel pipe through the chest.”

Nott scoffed loudly, drawing both their focus. “I’ll say. You nearly severed his heart in half.”

Harry’s arm tightened beneath her touch. “A stake through the heart… just like the legends.”

Nott rolled his eyes, stepping away with blatant dismissal. Harry pulled free of her hold, following the man around the table. “Until you can disprove otherwise I’m not ruling anything out.”

Nott stopped in his tracks, laughing bitterly. “What sound logic, Potter. Perhaps I should swing by the market for some garlic then?”

“Why not? That’s your kink, right? Experimentation?”

Nott turned to Hermione. “How can you tolerate such stupidity?”

She cringed, sensing the mounting storm brewing within her friend. Gold lightning struck in his gaze, threatening to overtake the green. She wet her lips tentatively, stepping closer. “Perhaps Harry has a point.”

Nott stiffened, staring at her as though she sprouted a third arm from her stomach. “You _can’t_ be serious.”

She carefully maneuvered herself around her friend’s rigid form, standing between the two men, confident Harry would never risk her safety no matter his rising temper. “Until we know more I don’t see the harm in taking extra precaution, no matter how foolish we may think it is.”

Nott scoffed once more. “I am _not_ stringing garlic around my laboratory.” And then crossed his arms, his ill-fitting lab coat stretching tight over his chest and arms, making him appear more petulant child than mad scientist. “Besides, I can’t abide the odor.”

Harry raised a dark brow, voice sardonic but blessedly calm. “This place smells like a rotting corpse.”

“Thank you for that astute observation.”

Her shoulders relaxed, confident they were past their trivial argument. "It's alright. There are other things we can do." She turned to Harry. "Crosses, right?"

Nott made another sound of discontent but remained silent. Harry ignored him, holding her gaze. “Yes. And mirrors.”

She tilted her head. “Mirrors?”

“Vampires don’t cast a reflection.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Supposedly.”

She bit her lip, gaze drifting back to the table. “Alright...” Her mind raced, trying to turn the information into something useful. Inspiration struck. She stood straighter, glancing up with a smile. “Then we’ll carry vanity compacts when we’re in public–”

“Granger.”

She blinked, jaw snapping shut as she turned to face Nott. His arms were still crossed, feet spread in a stance of defiance.

“You’re far too intelligent for this bullshit.”

She sensed movement at her back, hearing Harry's sharp intake of breath as he prepared to speak. She pressed a hand to his chest, silencing him while she continued to hold Nott's eye.

“Yesterday morning I would have readily agreed with you, Theo.” She watched him rock back, struck by the force of hearing his first name. She released Harry, continuing calmly, though her words radiated a quiet intensity. “But last night a man came into my home and hurt me. Then he threatened to hurt my father.”

Nott swallowed, arms lowering to his sides.

“I’ve never felt so scared and helpless. And I’ll do whatever it takes to _never_ feel that way again. No matter how silly. No matter how far-fetched.” She lifted her chin, eyes glinting in the green light. “If there’s even the faintest chance one of these things can protect me and my loved ones then I’m going to do it.”

A heavy beat.

“And I hope you will, too. You’re in just as much danger as us. If the infected are truly ageless they’ve been able to protect their secret for a _very_ long time. How do you think they've managed that?" She held his gaze steady. "Please don't place your pride before your safety. And if you aren't as concerned about your life as I am, then think about the research. I know that matters to you."

The silence following her impassioned speech was heavier than the words themselves. But as he finally broke from his rigid stance she sensed surrender in his posture. He shifted back, walking slowly to the table and gripping the edge.

“Holy water,” he muttered, facing away.

She blinked.

And then smiled, nodding with enthusiasm. “That’s right.” She turned to Harry, eyes bright. “We can collect some from St. Augustine.” Her mind raced for other possibilities. A random thought occurred to her, half-formed from hazy childhood memories. “What about silver?”

Had she not already been focused upon him she would have certainly missed his reaction for he worked to mask it as quickly as it came. But she caught it. The flash of fear in his eyes. The same look he bore when he burst into her house last night following her desperate pleas. She searched his gaze, noticing the gold had faded once more. Surely it had all been a trick of the light. Another unsettling illusion festering within her mind.

But her observations were abruptly halted as he spoke, voice strangely hollow. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “It burns their skin.”

She nodded slowly, still studying his face when Nott drew her focus to his perch beside the table.

“If we’re really going to base our assumptions off fairy tales, then _theoretically_ we should all be safe as long as we stay indoors after sundown.”

Hermione shook her head, chest tightening at the memory of her evening. “Trust me, a locked door isn’t going to stop them.”

Nott released the table to lean against the edge, facing them with casual repose, seeming to embrace the absurdity at last. “A vampire can’t enter unless invited.”

Hermione blinked. His words echoed through the vast caverns of her mind followed by a faint, distant hum. She swallowed thickly, swaying in place. Nott raised a brow, eyeing her speculatively.

“What’s wrong?”

She turned around slowly, knees stiff and hands clenched as she met Harry’s gaze. His expression matched her own line for line. And for the second time that afternoon they uttered the same thought in unison.

“Shit.”

* * *

Ron kicked at a stray rock, eyes narrowed as he watched it skid along the sidewalk and bounce off the side of a fence post, rage still simmering.

The Idiot Duo had forced him to walk home after his impromptu visit to their flat, but not before laughing outright in his face and calling him a gullible horse’s ass. According to the twins, Harry was having a good old fashioned laugh at their youngest brother’s expense, which they were more than keen to share in. Then they’d kicked him out, refusing to drive him back to the Burrow before their shift started.

If only Charlie had been home. He was the traveler among the group, the adventurer, the one who’d seen and done the most. Surely he’d encountered enough weird shit during his exotic escapades to believe Harry’s story, or at least not dismiss it outright.

Ron drew a hand through his hair, glancing away from the cracked pavement to the stretch of homes ahead, finally turning onto his street after trekking across nearly half the damn borough. Money was tight and he refused to waste a single dime on an overpriced cab when he had two perfectly functional legs. Shame over his recent unemployment was a lingering burden and he intended to conserve every penny unless it strictly related to finding his sister. His parents had agreed quitting his job was for the best, no sacrifice was too great where Ginny was concerned. But not being able to contribute to the monthly bills was a great blow to his pride, especially since his father took on twice the workload just to make the mortgage payment. And all the while, Ron had yet to find a single solid lead on his sister’s whereabouts. No shred of proof she was even alive…

Until now. Because he knew with every fiber of his being her disappearance was connected to whatever the _fuck_ he and Harry dragged into Nott’s secret laboratory. Just as he knew she had been kidnapped. Just as his mother knew she was still alive. For the first time in two weeks he felt a surge of hope, bright and intoxicating, and he planned to chase the lead down to its very bitter end, no matter the danger or cost.

The Burrow came into view at long last, the muscles in his thighs and sides burning in protest even as his heart skipped in relief. He swallowed heavily, fantasizing about a tall glass of cool water when movement caught his eye on the porch. Someone stood from the swinging bench. He blinked, steps faltering as he caught sight of a feminine shape, their face blocked by a hanging plant.

Blood rushed to his head, his pulse a deafening thud in his ears.

 _Ginny_ …

He sprinted forward without further thought, sneakers pounding the sidewalk hard as a heady rush of adrenaline suffused his limbs. He leaped over a flowering bush, toes kicking red petals into the air as he stumbled on the landing, quickly regaining his momentum and racing closer closer closer–

He skidded to a stop, nearly toppling over with the force of his shock as the woman's face came into view. She held his gaze, stepping to the edge of the porch, arms tightly crossed. He blinked, drawing a hand over his sweaty face before walking numbly to the picket fence. "Patil?"

Her eyes narrowed to murderous slits as she stomped down the stairs. “It’s about goddamn time, I’ve been sitting out here for an hour.”

He blinked again. “What…” And shook his head as she started up the stone path. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to talk to you. _Obviously_.”

He wet his lips, finally convinced this wasn’t an exhaustion-induced hallucination. “How did you find my house?”

She continued to hold his gaze steady, face pinched in acute derision. “Apparently everyone in Queens knows your family. Seems your brothers have stolen from every block between here and Woodside.”

"More like Elmhurst."

She rolled her eyes, perching her hands on her hips as she stopped on the other side of the gate. He adjusted his stance, leveling her with a distrustful look.

“What’s going on?”

She was silent for several moments, jaw tensing as though chewing on the words, unwilling to share them. Finally she relented, arms dropping and hands curling to fists. “Lavender didn’t come home last night.”

He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

Her scowl deepened. “What do you mean what do I mean? How stupid are you?”

“Fucking hell. Take it easy, _you_ came _here_.”

“Trust me, you were the very last resort.”

Now it was his turn to award her with his most irritated glare, shoulders leveling beneath his sweat-drenched shirt. “I’m sure Lav is fine.”

“And I’m sure she isn’t.”

He drew in a slow breath, forcing his expression and body to relax, a harrowing task. “She was meeting a new client. She probably just stayed the night.”

Patil shook her head, dark eyes flashing. “She never stays the night.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

She huffed loudly, reaching for the fence door. “I knew coming here was a mistake. You’re as useless as I thought.” She pulled it open and started to push past. He grabbed her arm on instinct, opening his mouth to attempt and reason with her once more, only to stagger back as she violently wrenched free, drawing her other arm back with a raised fist, poised to strike. He lifted both hands, backing away quickly.

“Whoa! Take it easy!”

“Don’t _ever_ touch me without my permission!”

He opened and closed his mouth, hands still raised. “Trust me, I have no desire to touch you either way.”

She searched his face and slowly dropped her arm, though her fist remained balled. He took it as a truce, pushing forward before their argument exploded to life once more.

“Alright.” He crossed his arms, tone calm and paced. “Why do you think she’s missing?”

She swayed in place, seeming to contemplate storming off anyway. But after another tense beat she continued, voice tight and clipped as though forcing the information free. “Because she never stays out all night. It’s part of our agreement.”

He tipped his head, brows knitting together. “Agreement?”

She glanced away, eyes darting aimlessly across the overgrown lawn. “At first I figured she was trying to punish me, but when she didn’t show this morning I knew–”

“Wait, wait, slow down–”

"There isn't time to slow down!" Her gaze snapped to attention, bright with hell flame. "Are you going to help me look for her or not?"

“What do you mean _punish_ you?”

She groaned, tossing her hands up and stepping back. “Forget it! You’ll only slow me down anyway!”

She spun on her heal, dark braid swinging as she started down the sidewalk, moving with great speed and purpose. Ron cursed silently and darted after her. “Parvati, wait.” He’d hoped using her first name would earn her attention but she continued forward without pause, rounding the corner in the next beat. He was hot at her heels, hand reaching up to grab her shoulder–

He sighed, dropped his arm and racing ahead, turning to face her as he held both arms aloft, blocking her path. Her face twisted with rage as she attempted to duck beneath or around his reach. He stopped her at each turn, careful not to touch her outright. She stomped her foot and met his gaze at last.

“ _Move_ asshole!”

“I want to help.”

She shook her head, attempting to dodge around him yet again. “I don’t _want_ your help.”

“I know. But you need it.”

She froze in place, one foot on the grass and one in the street, meeting his eye with equal parts resignation and anger. He slowly dropped his arms, continuing before she took off again.

“If we’re going to work together we have to put our differences aside.” A beat. “For Lavender.”

The weight of his words set upon them both. She swallowed heavily, stepping back onto the curb and lifting her chin. “Something really is wrong. I’m not being paranoid.”

He nodded slowly. “I believe you.” And gestured to the house. “My parents are out, come inside and tell me everything you know.” He held her gaze. “And then we’ll search for her.”

She drew in a deep breath, expression carefully blank. “We _have_ to find her. If we don’t…”

His hands curled around empty air at his sides. “We will.” He took a step back, starting up the sidewalk. “We will.”

* * *

Theo rubbed his stiff shoulder, leaning away from the microscope with a pained groan, unable to stare through the lens a moment longer. He stretched his arms overhead, tilting his neck to either side to alleviate the tension. His eyes burned with strain and exhaustion but sleep was out of the question. There was too much to do, endless hours of work ahead, countless formulations to try and trials to run… he could sleep when he was dead.

He lowered his arms and pushed to his feet, glancing to the clock on the far wall as he stretched his legs. Perfect.

Feeding time.

He made his way to one of the storage shelves and grabbed a small metal dish, filling it with dried fruit, seeds and grains from the neighboring container. He crossed the room to the sheet covered cages, gently shaking his bounty.

“Lunchtime, darling.” He grabbed the corner of the fabric and started to pull it up. “And how’s my favorite patient do–”

He stopped short, blinking upon spotting the empty cage.

“Abigail?” He pulled the sheet higher, revealing the side of the enclosure. The metal wires were bent and gnawed, creating a small opening that fed into the neighboring cage. He pulled the sheet higher yet, suddenly realizing how strange the silence was.

The bowl fell from his hand, hitting the cement with a metallic clatter, dried pellets scattering in every direction as he took in the horrific sight before him. He stood frozen, transfixed, cold sweet erupting along his entire frame–

A loud pounding sounded at the door. He jolted in place, releasing the sheet and spinning on his heel to stare at the landing above, mind still racing. Until his thoughts stuttered to a single memory. Granger’s ominous warning from hours earlier.

_“You’re in just as much danger as us.”_

He swallowed tightly, eyes rapidly darting around his lab, searching out a possible weapon. He didn’t keep a firearm on sight. In the event the police came raiding his stores he wanted one less charge to his name. Gun violence was rapidly on the rise and authorities didn’t take kindly to civilians in possession of automatic weapons, registered or otherwise.

But now that precaution felt foolishly short-sighted. The banging echoed through the room once more, loud and insistent. His visitor wasn't going anywhere. Theo paced to the center table and grabbed a long and narrow beaker constructed of double-plated glass, heavy enough to strike an injuring blow. If he had the nerve to take the swing.

He crossed to the steps, hesitating at the bottom for several moments, heart in his throat. He finally began the trek upward as the knocking took on a hurried quality. His shoulders tightened even as he tried to reassure himself with half-formed platitudes.

_Vampires would hardly knock. They’d wrench the door off the frame…_

_Or turn into a bat and come through the ducts._

He shook his head at his own stupidity. It seemed fear and intelligence were mutually exclusive. Or perhaps Potter was finally wearing off on him. The latter prospect was even more terrifying than a supernatural killer in his midst.

He raised the beaker overhead as he reached the landing, the railing pressing into his lower back as he stood as far back from the door as possible without plunging headfirst to the cement. He wet his lips, a powerful tremor running the length of his body as he called out. “Who is it?”

A mind-numbing pause.

“You’re favorite supplier!”

Theo scowled, lowering the beaker as his muscles uncoiled. “Fuck off, Finnegan!”

“Look, just hear me out–”

He shook his head, squeezing the beaker until it threatened to shatter in his hand. “I told you to wait for me to make contact.”

“I know! But trust me, you’re going to want to see this one!”

“I’m _not_ interested.” He grabbed the handrail and started down the steps.

“She’s like the last girl!”

Theo paused, one foot hovering mid-air as his eyes darted to the covered body on the table below. He tapped the beaker against his thigh, jaw clenching. And then he headed back to the landing, shoulders straining as he pulled the metal bar aside and opened the door, the afternoon sun blinding to his narrowed gaze. But Finnegan’s oafish frame filled his vision easily enough, blocking the rays as he spoke rapidly.

“I found this girl in the same area and she looks about the same age. She’s just as good as the other one if not better.”

Theo rubbed his eyes, exhaustion hitting him like a freight train in the wake of his waning adrenaline. “I don’t rank corpses on a scale of desirability. They all serve but one purpose. To further my research.”

Finnegan shifted from foot to foot. “Come on, Nott, don’t be a stingy bastard. Times are tough out there, a man’s gotta earn a living somehow.”

Theo’s hand dropped to the frame, bracing it tightly. “I am sure there is an abundance of illicit activity you’re able to engage in beyond hawking corpses.”

“If it wasn’t for me the streets would be overrun with bodies.”

Theo rolled his eyes. Figgen stepped forward, face twisting in agitation.

“The homeless drop dead faster than flies!” He gestured wildly to the air, as though expecting corpses to start raining from the sky to further illustrate his words. And then he straightened, glancing over his shoulder to something out of Theo’s view. “Well, except this one.”

Theo tilted his head and glanced down, spotting a bundled mass behind the man’s legs. “What do you mean?”

Finnegan shrugged one shoulder as he gazed forward. “She’s dressed too nice. But her headband and shoes are a giveaway. Given the neighborhood I found her in, my money’s on hooker.”

Theo drummed his fingers along the metal frame, eyes fastened to the tarp. “Let me see her.”

Finnegan's earlier rage dissipated at once, a full-fledged grin splitting his face in half as he shuffled back. Theo held his breath as the man leaned down, loosening the front of the fabric and pulling it down, exposing the corpse to the top of her shoulders. He tilted his head, studying her features with clinical detachment. She was young, early to mid-twenties, blonde and attractive, face bearing minimal damage beyond broken capillaries across her blue lids.

But her neck…

Her neck piqued his interest.

“Lower the tarp.”

Finnegan cringed. “Err…”

Theo’s eyes snapped up. “What?”

He watched with no small amount of annoyance as the vagrant dropped the tarp over her face, concealing her from view. “You’ve seen enough to know she’s good. Are you going to buy her or not?”

Theo scowled, hand threatening to shatter the beaker once more. “I _want_ to see the rest of her. Now lower the fucking tarp.”

Finnegan released a sharp hiss of breath, drawing a filthy hand over his face as he spoke. “Fine. She’s a bit marked up. I’ll knock a few dollars off the price.”

Theo raised a dark brow, spine straightening as he rocked in place, fighting to keep his feet rooted. “Show me.”

Finnegan sighed once more but relented, leaning over and pulling the tarp down to her hips. Theo’s eyes swept over her bare arms, the blood stains on her satin gown…

He smiled. Finnegan shifted back at the sinister sight.

“I’ll take her.” Theo stepped back, clearing the doorway. “Bring her in.”

* * *

Tom thrummed his fingertips atop the glossy desktop, staring blankly at the wall ahead, thoughts caught in a violent tempest. The storm splintered apart as movement from the hallway drew his focus. His eyes remained narrowed and fixed ahead as he addressed the doorway beside him.

“Go to bed, Brax.” He released a measured breath. “I’ll let you know as soon as I have something.”

The blonde nodded reluctantly, turning around.

The phone rang.

Both men turned to stone, pulses thrumming. Tom set his jaw, squaring his shoulders and lifting the receiver from the base on the second ring, slowly bringing it to his mouth.

“Riddle speaking.”

“ _Good morning, Tom_.”

His left eye twitched. He’d been expecting this call for days, but hearing the voice on the other end was never easily endured.

“Good morning, Sir.”

There was a faint shuffling on the other end of the line, papers being moved. “ _You’re a difficult man to get a hold of_.”

Tom leaned into his high backed chair, aware of his General’s lingering presence in the hallway. “My apologies, Sir. The City suffered a major power outage, I’ve been preoccupied with the fallout.”

“ _So I’ve heard_.”

Tom lifted his chin, eyes rapidly darkening. “Bella has been keeping you closely informed.”

Deep laughter echoed through the plastic. “ _I see there is still no love lost between the two of you_.”

Tom drew in a steadying breath, careful to keep his tone paced and calm. “I’m not comfortable with her knowing the specifics of this mission.”

“ _Funny you should mention that, as it seems not even_ I a _m privy to specifics._ ” A deliberate beat. “ _You failed to provide me with a status report._ ”

His hand flattened atop the wood in a vain attempt to prevent himself from punching a hole through it.

“ _Were you successful in obtaining the relic?_ ”

Tom didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Sir.”

A mind-numbing pause, followed by low laughter. “ _Excellent news. Though I should think you’d sound more excited, this_ is t _he crowning success of your leadership after all_.”

Tom wet his lips, nails pressing the veneer. "I'm reserving my celebration for the completion of the final stage."

A contemplative hum. “ _Always the practical one_.” And then a sigh. “ _Fair enough. We certainly have a lot more work ahead of us. Still…_ ” The grandfather clock in the corner ticked loudly, echoing his heartbeat. “ _I’m very proud of you, Tom._ ” He blinked. “ _Good job_.”

Tom’s mind went startling blank. “Thank you, Sir,” he replied without inflection, unable to process such acknowledgment.

“ _There’s no need to thank me. You’ve earned my praise and the esteem of the High Council_.”

And there it was. Tom ground his teeth, gums throbbing.

 _Fuck_.

More papers were shuffled, followed by a drawer sliding open. “ _Are you still busy with clean up from the outage?_ ”

Tom rapidly recalibrated without missing a beat. “Yes. I also have the string of kidnappings to contend with. The local authorities are starting to breathe down our necks.”

“ _The humans are still missing?_ ”

“Yes.”

The answering sigh made his blood run cold, muscles braced for the response he knew was certain to follow. “ _What did I teach you, Tom? You must keep a clean house to keep the vermin at bay_.”

He eyed the gleaming letter opener on the corner of the desk. “Understood.”

“ _If you’re preoccupied with local matters perhaps Bella can assist with the mission_.”

He stiffened, fangs lengthening in response. “That _isn’t_ necessary.”

Deep laughter rang out once more, making his skin crawl. “ _Somehow I knew you’d say that._ ” The drawer was slid shut. “ _Very well. I’ll leave it to you to keep the relic protected for the next few days_.”

Tom blinked, leaning forward. “What happens in a few days?”

“ _I arrive in New York_.”

His entire body pulsed. Abraxas edged closer to the doorway.

“I didn’t know you were coming.”

“ _Neither did I. But after your extended bout of silence the Council thought it prudent for me to check in personally._ ”

He gripped the edge of the desk until it groaned. “Sir, you don’t have to–”

“ _I’m already in transit, Tom. I’m coming, like it or not._ ”

He closed his eyes, releasing the wood before it splintered. “Yes, Sir.”

“ _That’s what I like to hear. Now, I’ll let you get back to running your City_.”

He set his jaw, leaning back once more.

“ _And Tom?_ ”

He didn’t respond, merely stared into the distance, braced for whatever menacing warning was sure to be delivered.

“ _I look forward to seeing what you’ve done with my old Territory._ ”

He fought back a scowl at the resonating amusement in the static-laced voice. “And I look forward to hosting you.”

“ _I’ll be seeing you very soon_.”

Hearing the promise he’d delivered earlier in the evening spoken back to him made his stomach clench, paranoid his Maker could now add omnipotence to his already extensive list of abilities.

"Delightful," Tom muttered, unable to disguise his startling lack of enthusiasm.

Baleful laughter echoed in his ear long after the line went dead. He set the receiver back into the cradle, inhaling slow and deep before speaking to the open air.

“Shite.”

“Indeed.” Abraxas stepped into the room. “Please tell me you found the relic.”

Tom rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers before his lips. “No. But I discovered the next best thing.” He stretched his long legs out before him, muscles slowly easing at the memory. “Someone to lead me to it.”

Abraxas watched him intently, raising a pale brow. “One of ours?”

Tom shook his head, continuing to gaze at the wall, thoughts already miles away as a plan steadily took shape in his mind. “A human.”

He sensed his General’s surprise, and then his dawning realization as he shifted forward, undoubtedly drawn by the same elusive mystery that called to Tom like a siren to a shipwreck.

“The Egyptologist.”

He didn’t reply. Nor did he have to. Abraxas tipped his head. “How–”

“I don’t know.” Tom’s voice more clipped than intended, hunger and exhaustion plaguing him hard. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, affecting a calmer tone. “But I will soon enough.”

Abraxas wasn’t phased by his ire, well conditioned to such rapid-flux emotions after countless decades at his side. “What are you going to do?”

Tom lowered his hands, rapping his knuckles against the wood idly. “I’m going to pay the lovely Ms. Granger another visit.” His stomach growled in anticipation. “Tonight.” He met his General’s eye, fangs gleaming in the lamplight as he grinned with sinister pleasure. “And then I’m going to take her.”


	6. Sweet Dreams

_“You must come with me, loving me, to death; or else hate me, and still come with me.”_  
~ Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, Carmilla  
.   .   .

Hermione carefully lowered the spout, allowing the chamber of the flask to fill with cool liquid. Multi-colored lights danced across the tiles and basin, sunlight reflecting off the stained glass at their backs. Harry glanced around, body wrought with tension as he lifted his own flask from the bowl.

“Are we even allowed to do this?” He asked, eyeing the parishioners scattered throughout the pews.

“Of course.”

He edged closer, using his large frame to block view of their task. “You’re sure it isn't stealing?”

“Since when have you shied away from stealing?”

His eyes narrowed. "I'm not sixteen anymore. And taking from a Church is a little different than swiping the teacher's grade book."

“What about swiping the principal’s car?”

“I didn’t drive it off campus.”

The corner of her mouth lifted. “No, you drove it into a tree in the parking lot,” laughing softly as he rolled his eyes. “The holy water is here for everyone,” she assured. “And we left a donation in the box, we won’t be smote down.” Hermione paused, thinking better of it. “Then again, the day is still young.” She pulled her flask from the bowl and screwed the cap into place. “I wish we could have found proper bottles. I detest these things.”

“They’re small and easy to conceal,” Harry replied, opening the bag at his side. She peered inside, setting her flask atop the pile of recently procured items.

“Alright, that’s the last of it.” She bit her lip, eyes flitting from the mirrored compacts and wooden crosses to the bushel of cloves lining the bottom of the canvas. “I do hope we have enough garlic for everyone.”

“We’re more stocked than an Italian restaurant.”

She ignored the quip. “I’d like for Ron to give some to his brothers as well, it’s less conspicuous than lining the wall with crucifixes.”

Harry raised a speculative brow. “Is it?”

“I have no idea,” she sighed, stepping back as he closed the top flap. “My life stopped making sense the moment you brought me that jar.”

He shifted away. Her head snapped up, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay. And you’re right. I wish to God I’d never brought this chaos to your doorstep.”

Hermione shook her head, closing the distance and placing a hand on his arm. “You couldn’t have known how deep this ran. And whether you brought it to me or not, vampires would still be running around the city. It’s better we know the threat exists.”

“I’d rather remain blissfully ignorant and safely off their radar.”

She smiled. “I was trying to find the silver lining.” And then jolted at her own words, hand falling away. “Crap!” A nearby patron glanced at them sharply. “We forgot the silver!”

His shoulders drew back, face tensing for the space of a heartbeat before he placed a staying hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright, we’ve put together a decent Vampire Slayer Starter Pack, we can add more later.” He glanced to the sea of stained glass. “Besides, we’re losing daylight. I want to get you situated at Grimmauld before taking supplies to—”

“Get me situated?” She drew back swiftly. “What are you talking about?”

He glanced at her in bemusement. “You can’t possibly think you can stay at your house after inviting a vampire inside.”

A woman approaching the donation box glanced their way. Harry took Hermione’s elbow and directed them towards the wall.

“We don’t know if that legend applies,” Hermione whispered, mindful of the cursory looks they were starting to receive.

“We also don’t know if holy water burns them, and yet here we are, in a Church, reeking of garlic.” Harry cast his voice low, gaze unyielding. “We agreed at the lab it was better to take every precaution, no matter how outlandish.”

“My father—”

“Will come with you. There’s more than enough room.”

“Exactly,” she hissed. “Plenty of room for him to wander off and injure himself.”

“We’ll seal off the east wing.”

“And Crookshanks?”

Harry blinked, visibly fighting back a scowl. “He can prowl the hallways for mice, he’ll be the happiest among us.”

She sighed deeply. “The house is falling apart, Harry.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, lips pressing thin. Tense silence festered between them as he edged closer, the lines of his face set in absolution. "There are only two options to be had, Mione. You and your father come to Grimmauld, or I move into Waverly with you. But remember this… I've already faced off against one of these things and survived through sheer dumb luck alone."

Hermione swallowed, terrified of the prospect, unwilling to face how close she’d come to losing him.

“If Riddle comes back, if he overpowers me, you’ll be left to defend your father by yourself again. And we have no idea if your superhuman strength will return,” he continued, prompting her to glance around nervously, wary of eavesdroppers. “But I won’t force your hand. You decide. I’ll go along with whatever you want.”

She closed her eyes, heartbeat reverberating through all four limbs, pressure building in her chest. “We’ll come to Grimmauld,” she relented, meeting Harry’s emerald stare at last. “Temporarily, until we can find a more permanent solution.”

He smirked wryly. “Like how to kill the undead bastard.”

A man at the end of a nearby pew watched them with blatant interest. Harry leaned down, whispering in her ear. “Let’s get out of here before the smoting starts.”

She nodded, taking his arm and allowing him to lead her to the entry. He reached forward, opening the door and gesturing her forward.

“Harry?” She asked as they began to descend the stairs to the sidewalk. “Are you sure we shouldn’t tell Theo about my….” She glanced around once more, mindful of pedestrian traffic. “Abilities?”

He adjusted the strap over his shoulder, the assorted contents clanking together. "As I said before, I don't want anyone else to know. Not even Ron."

“Why not?”

“Until we know for certain there’s something going on I don’t want anyone looking at you differently.”

Hermione blinked, taken aback by the response. “My skin _glowed_ , Harry, and not in the figurative sense. I looked like a human Christmas tree. Something is most definitely going on. Perhaps they should look at me differently. I might be dangerous.”

“You _aren’t_ dangerous. Regardless of whatever’s happening to you.” His voice radiated with conviction. “But it’s more than that. Nott’s a scientist. I won’t have him jamming you full of needles to quell his curiosity.”

She clutched his arm tighter, maneuvering around a hydrant. “Maybe he can find a cure.”

“You aren’t sick!”

Hermione jumped, releasing his arm and stopping in her tracks. He blinked quickly, staggering back as though eager to distance himself from her, nearly colliding with a man walking in the opposite direction.

“Sorry, I just…” He carded a hand through his hair, glancing away, eyes gleaming in the sunlight. “Everything will be okay.” He affected in a calmer tone, though it seemed to take a great deal of effort. “We’ll figure out what’s going on, _without_ turning you into a guinea pig.”

Hermione watched him carefully. “And Ron?”

Harry shook his head, stepping in line beside her as they resumed their trek forward. “He wielded a gun in Central Park on no more than a hunch, there’s no telling what he’ll do if he knows a vampire showed up at your door.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “Let’s keep this between us. Just for now.”

She took a deep breath, nodding slowly.

“But you have to be completely honest with me, Hermione. If anything like last night occurs again, you have to tell me.”

She bit her lip, tension coiling tight within her gut. “I will.” Her vision dimmed at the edges, a crackle of energy lingering in the air, ghosting across her skin. “I promise.”

* * *

Theo tilted his head, examining the slumbering mouse with a critical eye. He’d spent over an hour cleaning the cages, cringing at the bits of blood and gore dangling off the bars, staining the straw. Abigail had chewed through two metal barriers, climbing through the divide and consuming four of her living companions... alive. Moreso, she’d devoured them clean to the bone, leaving behind nothing more than skeletons and tufts of fur. Then she’d promptly collapsed, stomach bulging with the evidence of her gruesome meal, white coat stained red and whiskers twitching as she dreamed innocently.

Since discovering the massacre he'd bounced steadily between horror and intrigue, unable to make sense of the anomaly. After all, she hadn't sported fangs, nor did her heart cease to beat. She hadn't drained her victims' blood or sprout bat wings… nothing about her outward appearance had changed, nothing about her actions reflected classical vampire lore…

He felt foolish for feeling a twinge of disappointment.

Theo crossed his arms and tilted his head in the other direction, hoping it may reveal a fresh clue to the ongoing mystery, thoughts racing all the while. He wondered if raw beef could have quelled her appetite, or if the prey had to be alive. Perhaps this was how the virus spread, turning hosts into carnivorous predators. Truly, there was only one way to be certain.

He had to continue testing.

Theo turned away at last, striding to the lab table and lifting the edge of a bloody handkerchief, revealing the remnants of a mouse carcass. He eyed it speculatively before reaching for his gloves, dutifully pulling them on and inspecting the material for any tears, refusing to take any chances. Without knowledge of how the virus spread he couldn’t risk coming into contact with it.

The rubber groaned between his fingers as he reached for the scalpel, severing a small sample of the body and setting it atop a glass slide, carefully situating it beneath the microscope. He stepped to the edge of the table and leaned down, adjusting the lens as he peered into the scope, breath turning shallow with anticipation. But after a few minor adjustments he withdrew, jaw clenched in frustration.

There was no sign of the virus in the blood or tissue cells.

_It doesn’t spread through the bite..._

He blinked.

_The bite._

And turned swiftly, pulling his gloves free as he cut a determined path across the lab to the back wall, stopping before the metal table and the body it displayed. He’d stripped the corpse as soon as he’d gotten it situated hours prior, examining the female at length, making detailed notes of every injury. There were many to be certain, all of a similar nature.

Teeth marks.

But the bruising around the neck solidified the cause of death as strangulation. Just like the last body he'd purchased off Finnegan. The brutal slayings were yet another layer added to the ever-growing mystery taking shape in his laboratory, but one thing was now abundantly certain… There was a serial killer prowling the streets of New York City. And the madman had a rather perverse signature.

Theo braced his hands against the edge of the metal slab, eyes lingering upon a deep gnaw mark along the girl's ribs. At first glance, it seemed no more than another psychopath on the loose. But after observing the profound effects of the virus first hand, a new theory blossomed to life within his mind.

Perhaps the virus created more than just vampires.

* * *

Harry rounded the corner, adjusting the bag over his shoulder as he embarked on the final stretch of private road. He glanced up as the rod iron gates came into view, step faltering as he spotted a tall figure centered before the barrier. The visitor’s head was tipped back, blue eyes narrowed upon the mansion as though it had caused him some personal affront.

“Ron?”

The man in question jolted and spun, movements harried as though electrified. “There you are! Christ, I was scared out of my mind! You were supposed to call me this morning!”

Harry blinked, trying to piece together the chaotic string of days and nights that comprised his homecoming. “Sorry, something came up.”

“Came up?” Ron's gaze widened, bright and eager. “Did you find a lead?”

Harry’s heart dropped like a stone, pace slowing as he drew near. “No.”

Ron deflated at once, expression darkening, sending a powerful wave of guilt crashing overhead, ice down Harry’s spine. He wanted to tell his friend everything, hated keeping him in the dark. But his words to Hermione rang true. He feared what Ron would do if armed with such knowledge, harboring no doubt the man would light a torch and lead the charge to find Riddle himself. If Harry couldn’t overpower the infected, his friend certainly stood no chance. It was better Ron remained focused on Ginny, for everyone’s sake.

“I was gathering supplies,” he offered, stopping before him.

“Supplies?”

Harry nodded, opening the bag for Ron’s perusal. The redhead leaned in, brow lifting. “You’ve _got_ to be kidding.”

“Says the man who pulled a gun in the middle of Central Park.”

“With good reason.”

Harry rolled his eyes, closing the flap. “Now that we know bullets are useless I figured we could try something old school.”

“I’ll start whittling stakes,” Ron replied with a wry grin.

“Make enough for everyone. Sharing is caring.”

His friend chuckled, then rubbed the back of his neck, laughter turning strained. Harry studied him carefully. “What’s going on?”

Ron shuffled awkwardly. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Besides vampires and cannibals?”

“Yeah.”

Harry fished the keys from his pocket. “That sounds fucking fantastic, come on in.”

He unlocked the ivy-strewn gate and motioned his friend through, eyeing the street all the while, catching more than a few lingering stares upon them. Neighbors unsettled by his reappearance in their quaint, privately-gated lives. Uppity fuckers. Harry saluted an elderly woman pretending to prune her rose bushes, watching him blatantly. She huffed in annoyance, turning away as he closed the gate with a laugh. “Another day in paradise,” he muttered to himself, leading Ron along the cobblestone path to the front door.

As they entered the foyer Ron’s steps faltered, eyes brimming comically wide as he took in the dark interior. Wind whistled through the busted slats, crumpled leaves scraped across the wood floor. “Christ, this place looks like a mausoleum.”

“It might as well be.” Harry pushed the door shut, the slam echoing off the vaulted ceiling. He waited for bats to start fluttering. “The majority of its residents died here.”

Ron’s gaze drifted to the barren landing. “What happened to Walburga?”

“I took her down.”

“I thought she was permanently adhered to the wall.”

“It wouldn’t have surprised me.” Harry removed the strap from his shoulder, letting the bag drop to the floor with a thump, erupting a cloud of dust. “Weird shit keeps happening.”

“Such as?”

Harry thought of the lamp exploding in his hand, the sinister presence dwelling in the shadows, watching, _waiting_... He tucked his hands into his pockets, shrugging casually. “Nothing of note.” He eyed his friend. “Enough about me. What did you want to talk about?”

Ron widened his stance, seeming to brace for the weight of his next words. “Another girl went missing last night.” A tense beat. “Maybe.”

Harry’s brow creased. “From where?”

“We’re not sure.”

Harry blinked. “We?”

Ron took a steadying breath, shoulder blades flexing. “It’s Lavender.”

The grandfather clock in the corner ticked loudly as Harry wracked his brain, coming up blank. “Who?”

Ron leaned back, struck by the question. “ _Who_? The girl I met at the fair a couple months before you left.”

Harry searched desperately for the memory the words evoked, images slowly taking shape in his mind. His spine straightened as the pieces clicked into place at last. “The girl...” His discomfort was palpable. “I thought… wasn’t she…”

Ron lifted his chin, the challenge made clear in his gaze. “Wasn’t she _what_?”

“Nevermind,” Harry said automatically, sensing the impending storm on the horizon.

Ron crossed his arms, words clipped. “Yes. She tricks on the side.”

“On the side of what?”

His friend scowled, neck and ears reddening. “Since when are you such a judgemental prick?”

“I’m not judging. I’m just trying to get the whole story.”

“If you’d shut up I’d give you the whole fucking story.”

Harry lifted his own chin, arms crossing as he mirrored the man’s battle stance.

"Her roommate paid me a visit this morning," Ron continued, voice cutting like a knife. "Said Lav never came home after visiting with a new client, which has never happened before. They agreed neither would stay out overnight without notifying the other, especially in light of all the disappearances." His expression tensed, the heat in his eyes giving way to raw misery. "She thinks something bad has happened."

Harry’s defenses split at the seams, arms lowering. “And what do you think?”

“I don’t know.” Ron swallowed heavily. “But I want to find out.” Harry glanced away, wheels rapidly turning behind his eyes. Ron glared anew. “Oh just fucking say it.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “Look, I’m not trying to piss you off— but as your best friend I’ve earned the right to be direct, whether you like what I have to say or not.” Ron rolled his eyes. Harry pressed on. “Lavender’s been gone less than twenty-four hours, so there’s no telling if she’s even missing.”

His friend opened his mouth, an argument simmering on the tip of his tongue. Harry held up a staying hand, barrelling ahead. “But even if she _is_ , the chance her disappearance is linked to Gin or the others is slim. The majority of missing people come from wealthy, well-connected families. Gin’s the outlier, but Lavender is completely off the reservation.”

Ron stewed in silent ire.

“I’m just telling you the facts, and you’re angry because you know I’m right,” Harry continued, undaunted. “Searching for this girl will detract from Ginny. You’re free to do whatever the hell you want, but think about why you asked me to come home. Gin’s time is running out. Each moment you spend looking for Lavender is a moment your sister slips further away.”

Ron’s fists clenched, teeth grinding. “I can search for them both.”

They held each other’s glare pound for pound, floor rumbling with the intensity. Harry glanced away first, recognizing a losing match as easily as stepping into the ring. Ron’s mind was made up the moment he arrived at the gates. He hadn’t come for advice. He’d come for support. Harry felt another twinge of guilt stir in the pit of his stomach. But there was nothing for it. He stood by everything he’d said.

“Do what you need to do then,” Harry concluded simply.

Ron shook his head, dropping his arms and striding for the door, radiating anger with every step. Harry wet his lips, struggling for the right words, a way to remedy this festering wound. But his mind went stunningly blank as his friend paused at the door, gripping the handle tight.

“You left, Harry. You were gone for two years, without a single word.” Ron shook his head, glaring pointedly at the wall. “Mione buried herself under work. Gin closed herself away. Fred and George moved out and Charlie ran off to the fucking jungle. I had _no one_." His jaw swiveled from side to side, voice turning hoarse. "Except for Lavender."

He swallowed heavily, Adam’s apple bobbing high. “She listened. She cared. She was my only source of…” The knob rattled beneath his fist. “Yes, she’s a hooker. But she’s my friend as well and right now she needs me. I’m not going to let her down. I’m not choosing her over Gin. I won’t lose either of them.” A weighted pause. “And you were wrong before.” He glanced back, meeting Harry’s agonized gaze. “You say you’re my best friend. But not anymore. Now you’re just a stranger I barely recognize. And the only thing keeping us connected is Gin. If she’s dead…” A deafening beat. Harry released a slow breath. “I think you should go back to California.”

The pain was immense, crippling and swift. Harry rocked back, struck by a physical blow. His throat pulled tight, silencing any words he might have conjured. Instead, he watched in silent misery as Ron opened the door and stepped through, slamming it at his back with such force it threatened to split the frame. A fresh plume of dust burst to life with the motion, caught in the breeze and dancing in the sunlight before settling in a film across Harry’s front. And for just a moment, he wondered if he wasn’t just another forgotten antique trapped within these crumbling walls.

* * *

Hermione crossed her legs, shifting restlessly as the cab turned the corner onto the busy thoroughfare. Her fingers tapped the lid of Crookshanks’ crate, the plastic container wedged firmly between them. She watched her father closely, unable to hide her mounting anxiety as they ventured deeper and deeper into traffic, terrified the sight of the bustling city would overwhelm him.

But it seemed her fears were for naught. He bounced eagerly in his seat, eyes wide and fixed to the window like a kid on Christmas morning. The sight gave her pause, soothing her nerves and bringing a delighted smile to her face.

Until he spoke.

“I wish Hermione could see this.”

Her heart dropped. She swallowed her disappointment, leaning forward to catch a glimpse of whatever held his attention rapt. But all she spotted were trees and cars, shops and cafés, a sea of pedestrians absorbed in their own mundane daily tasks.

“One more year and she’ll be old enough to come along. She’s so excited to travel. To dig.”

Her pulse skipped at the sting his words induced. She fought the surge of emotion, wondering what scene was playing through his mind at this very moment, hoping the memory was more pleasant than their current reality.

He tilted his head, eyes reflecting brightly in the smudged window. “She’s going to be the greatest archaeologist the world has ever known.”

Hermione glanced away, heart lodged firmly in her throat. The pride in his voice was unmistakable.

_If only he could see me now._

She closed her eyes as they turned the corner, entering the private community at last. Crookshanks mewled, echoing her rising discomfort. She stuck her fingers through the grate, stroking his fur in an attempt to provide comfort to them both.

“I do hope the permit extension was approved. We’ve already hired the crew. I don’t want to face an uprising if we have to send them home,” he continued, eyes never straying from the window.

“It’ll be fine, Papa. We’re almost there.” Her eyes drifted up, meeting the driver’s curious gaze in the rearview mirror. Warmth stained her cheeks, relief loosening her spine as her father fell silent at last. She turned her attention to her own window, watching the houses grow larger and larger until they were passing mansions, coming to a stop before the largest and darkest of them all. The sprawling Gothic structure filled the pane, blocking out the sunlight.

And then her father opened his door, leaping out as the cab was rocking to a stop. She spun with a gasp, grabbing the crate and scrambling after him.

“Papa, wait!”

“M’am! A dollar eighty!” The driver shouted, turning in his seat.

She blinked, settling into place. "Oh, right. Sorry." She reached into her purse, breathing a sigh of ease as her father stopped before the ivy-covered gate.

“It’s alright,” the stranger stated, voice softening. “My mother went through it at the end as well.”

Hermione’s gaze snapped forward, movements stilling. She replayed the words twice in her head, unable to contrive a response. “She…”

“Died. Two years ago.”

Hermione sat frozen for another jarring beat before leaning in, drawn by their mutual misery. “May I ask… how long did it take?”

He sighed, resting an arm over the seat. “The day she stopped recognizing me and my brother marked the end. She passed a few months later.”

She fell back into the cracked leather upholstery. A few months? Her father only recognized her half the time anymore...

Suddenly the gate parted, a familiar figure emerging.

“Mione!”

She jolted at Harry’s voice and Crookshanks’ answering hiss, fishing the bills from her wallet and handing them over. “Thank you for the ride. And I’m so very sorry for your loss. Please, keep the change.”

He nodded, accepting the cash. “Have a nice day, Miss.”

Hermione tore her gaze away, lifting the crate and rising from the cab, eager to leave the melancholy atmosphere behind. She closed the door with her hip, smiling as Harry approached. “Sorry it took so long. I wasn’t sure how much to pack.”

The trunk popped open at their sides.

“Do you mind helping with the bags?”

“Course not,” he replied at once, carding a hand through his chaotic locks. “You head in, I’ll bring them up.”

A low growl emanated from the back of the carrier, Crookshanks huddled at the far end as though preparing to pounce. She fought to steady the container, shaking her head in amusement as Harry scowled, meeting the feline’s glowing gaze through the bars. She turned the direction of the carrier around, breaking their staring contest and starting for the gates.

“Come on, Papa.”

Harry blinked, spinning on his heel, seeming to remember the man's presence at the same moment. He smiled warmly, holding out his hand. "Hello Profess—" He choked back the second half of the title, grin strained. "Mr. Granger."

“James!” Her father called out, startling them both with an explosion of exuberance. Harry stiffened as he was clapped on the shoulder and pulled in for a tight embrace. “It’s been too long!” Her father laughed, drawing back and gripping Harry’s arms. “How’s Lily? Have you gotten the nursery together?”

Harry opened and closed his mouth, blinking quickly.

“Helen has been badgering me with questions but I told her not to call you every five minutes. After the scare we had with Hermione she’s practically beside herself whenever a friend’s due date draws near.” He gripped Harry’s shoulder once more, squeezing. “But there’s nothing to fear, my friend. Your son will be born healthy and strong.”

Harry’s throat bobbed, muscles drawn tight. “Thank you…” his eyes flickered to Hermione and back. “Richard.”

She blinked back tears, glancing away as her father's demeanor changed in the next breath. His eyes dimmed, limbs going lax as his hands dropped lifelessly to his sides. She cleared her throat, stepping forward and gripping his arm.

“Let’s go, Papa.”

She began to direct him towards the house, glancing silently at Harry. He held her gaze a moment more before turning for the trunk. She glanced down, navigating the cobblestone path to the front porch. But once they reached the rotting steps her father stopped, rocking in place as though hitting an invisible barrier.

“We aren't supposed to be here.”

She stumbled over a stray rock, taken aback at the gravity of his voice. She studied his profile, adjusting her grip on the carrier handle as Crookshanks began rioting anew. “Sure we are, Harry invited us.” She fought to maintain her grip on the thrashing crate. “It’s alright, Papa. This is only for a little while. We’ll be home in no time.”

He blinked slowly, clarity slipping beneath the murky surface of his mind. She took his hand as they embarked the rickety steps. The front door stood ajar, revealing a shadowed entry. A cool breeze swept past as they crossed the threshold, dried leaves scattering in the current. The boarded windows afforded little sunlight but the cobwebs on the ceiling hung in stark relief, casting intricate shadows across the walls. She released a weighted sigh, resigned to spending the next few days cleaning.

At last, she set the rattling crate on the ground, kneeling beside it. “Alright, Crooks. Remember, we’re guests here. I expect you to be on your best behavior.” He settled at once, purring low and pawing innocently at the bars. She rolled her eyes, unconvinced by the display but reaching for the door all the same, barely opening it a crack before the feline darted out like a shot, tearing around the corner in a flash of orange. “Don’t break anything!” She called after his shadow, rising to her feet.

A sudden creak on the landing drew her gaze. The opposing wall stood empty, the wallpaper shifting before her eyes, the panel beneath pulsing in time to her own heart. She blinked, rubbing her eyes, the wall turning stagnant once more, but the shadows continued to undulate. A trick of the light. Her shoulders drew in, feet shuffling closer to her father.

“Right then. Let’s wait for Harry, shall we?”

He startled her by taking her hand in both of his palms. “Please, Hermione.”

She glanced up, speechless at his use of her name, the conviction of his tone. He held her gaze steady, the gleam of his irises and intensity of his expression reminding her of something just out of reach… a time long ago, a dream long forgotten.

“You aren’t safe here, darling.” He squeezed her hand until the bones threatened to break, pressing it to his chest, heart beating steadily behind his ribs. “Promise me you’ll—”

Harry entered loudly at their backs, kicking the door shut as he lowered their bags with a thump. Her father released her hand. She swallowed thickly, searching his gaze. "Papa?" But his expression rapidly turned vacant, eyes drifting aimlessly. She shook her head, leaning in. "Promise you _what_?”

He turned away, beginning to shuffle forward. She released her breath in a dizzying rush, drained by the onslaught of emotion, looking to Harry on instinct. Her eyes held a desperation she couldn’t hide, though she hadn’t the faintest clue what she was seeking. But her friend seemed to know just what she needed, his smile an instant balm to her nerves.

“Let me show you upstairs. I’ll bring your bags after.”

She nodded quickly, reaching for her father once again, taking his hand and following Harry up the grand staircase. He led them to the first room in the east corridor, pausing before the door.

“I figured you want to be side-by-side. I spent the most time cleaning up in here. I nailed the windows shut and… well, I tried to dust.” He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks coloring as he pushed the door wide, switching on the light. “I know it’s a bit—”

“It’s great, Harry. Thank you.”

Her friend sighed, her words seeming to provide little consolation as he watched her lead her father to the bed at the center of the room. He sat on the edge without argument, staring blankly at the wall. She lowered to her haunches before him, trying to catch his gaze.

“This is your room, Papa. I’ll be right next door. If you need anything just call out, I’ll come to you.”

He didn’t react to her words, didn’t meet her eye. Her shoulders dropped, hand pressing her chest as the silence ate its way through muscle and bone, hollowing her ribs. One day soon he’d stop talking altogether. The memories would fade entirely. _She_ would fade entirely...

Hermione looked away with a grimace, rising swiftly and exiting the room without a word. She wiped her eyes as Harry emerged behind her, gently closing the door at their backs. He tried to meet her gaze but she refused to glance in his direction, until at last he relented with a sigh, leading the way to the open doorway beside her father's room.

The layout of her bedroom was identical to the first, apart from the dizzying pattern of the textiles and wallpaper, the furniture greatly mismatched, a clear sign Harry had thrown it all together just before their arrival. His haphazard preparation was further evidenced by the knee-deep layer of dust coating nearly every hard surface. He crossed his arms. “I know it’s…” His brow creased. “I changed the bedding but I’m still going to clean—”

“It’s alright, Harry.”

His emerald gaze snapped forward. “No, it’s not. None of this is alright.” The intensity of the words silenced her. She watched in a numb stupor as his arms dropped, body drawing near, an approaching hurricane she had no desire to escape. “I’m so sorry, Mione.”

She blinked rapidly, tears overspilling her eyes in a powerful torrent, the floodgates crashing open all at once. She sucked in a trembling breath, releasing it in a strangled sob. Harry reached forward, grabbing her arm and pulling her into his chest. Hermione sought immediate shelter, burying her sopping face in his shirt, desperate to block out the light, the room, reality, for just a moment. She fought to control the volume of her outburst, terrified her father would overhear, that he’d worry... if worry was something he was even capable of feeling anymore.

“I’m so scared,” she gasped, eyes squeezed tight. “Everything is falling apart and I can’t put it back together. I don’t know how.” She took comfort in his solid presence, the hands stroking her hair, the chin resting atop her head. “I’m tired of being scared, Harry.” She clutched the fabric of his shirt with both hands, fists trembling. “I’m tired of being alone.”

He swallowed heavily, throat bobbing against her temple. “You aren’t alone anymore. I’m here now.” His arms tightened around her back, the heat of his body quelling the frigid chill in the air. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

Tom stood with unnatural stillness, stomach tightening as he gazed upon the building across the street. Even from a distance he knew it sat vacant, the powerful cloud of her scent absent, her energy signature reduced to a faint glimmer. His Egyptologist had left and taken the old man and beastly feline with her.

Tom stepped away from the curb, turning for the sidewalk and wondering just how much she knew. He’d be finding out soon enough. Discovering her home empty wasn’t a surprise, but the lack of squad cars awaiting his return was telling. She hadn’t turned to the authorities following the attack… which meant she was hiding something. Something that terrified her more than him. And he was certain he knew what it was.

Tom progressed down the pavement, pedestrians veering out of his path with every step. The scent of fear and desire poured from them in toxic clouds, a heady combination he was used to eliciting and rarely paid notice to. But tonight they were proving a great hindrance, overlaying the remnants of Her scent, a fragrance unlike any he’d previously encountered in this cesspool of a city.

He stepped off the curb and began to cross the street, so absorbed in his task he barely smelled the smoke exhaust in time, moving back with lightning reflexes as a car swerved, honking wildly. His jaw tensed, gut clenching with hunger and agitation. He was distracted, still on edge from this morning's phone call, leaving him in desperate need of release… before finding his Egyptologist. Otherwise, he was bound to do something abundantly foolish, and she was far too precious to waste.

He paced back to the sidewalk and made his way towards the first alley he passed, empty save for an overflowing dumpster and slumbering vagrant. He leaped the ten-foot expanse between the blacktop and fire escape, deftly ascending the metal steps to the rooftop. He stepped along the edge, breathing in the night air and all of her collective scents, shoulders drawing wide. He could still smell her, just barely. She'd left hours earlier, likely by cab, which only degraded her scent further. But he sensed her aura, a static electricity dancing across his skin, leading the path ahead.

He darted forward, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, a dark smudge on the inky backdrop of night, making it another handful of blocks before he heard the shrill scream tear through his concentration. He paused, attention diverted beyond his control, predatory instincts flaring red as the wail turned muffled, followed by the low hiss of masculine voices.

_“Shut her up!”_

_“I’m trying! Hurry the fuck up!”_

Tom continued ahead, dismissing the commotion at his back. Until another scream filled the night, desperate, dying, followed by a gasp of pain. He stopped once more, stomach growling.

Fuck.

_“Ow! Dumb cunt bit me!”_

A sharp slap, a sob.

_“Hold her still, I’m going first.”_

Tom changed direction, leaping onto the neighboring rooftop and pacing to the edge, peering into the dark divide between abandoned buildings.

_“You went first last time.”_

_“And I’m going first again, you have a problem with that?”_

He spotted movement at the back of the alley, the exit blocked by a metal fence. Two men stood facing away from him. One punched the other, sending his companion sprawling into the brick wall.

“That’s what I thought. Now shut the fuck up and hold her down.”

Tom’s eyes gleamed, catching sight of the woman laid before them, barefoot and kicking, stockings ripped and blouse torn, revealing a dirtied camisole.

“Stop crying, stupid bitch. This is what happens when your kind comes into our neighborhood.” The first man lowered his weight atop her legs as she continued to thrash. “You don’t like it, you can go back to whatever filthy country you came from.”

He pressed a hand to her mouth, only to withdraw the appendage a moment later, skin broken and bloody.

“I’m from Harlem, you fucking idiot!” She screamed, eyes glinting manic with rage and tears, blood gleaming on her teeth.

He slapped her, splitting her bottom lip. Tom dropped to the pavement several yards away. Neither man glanced in his direction, preoccupied with holding down her limbs. Her dark eyes darted between her attackers, and then caught sight of Tom’s approach, flaring even wider. The man atop her legs seemed to sense a new presence, glancing up at last. Tom grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and wrenched him back, tossing him with more strength than intended. The frail human flew several feet through the air, colliding with the brick and collapsing in a heap.

The man holding her wrists sprung to his feet, pressing into the gate with a terrified yelp. Tom reached out and grabbed him by the throat, intending to pull him forward but instead tearing out his larynx. Blood spurted like a fountain, soaking Tom’s hand and shirt as the human clutched at the gaping wound, face turning white as chalk.

“Shite.” Tom dropped the organ atop the garbage at his feet, staring at the carnage dripping from his palm before wiping it clean on the man’s jacket as he collapsed to his knees.

Splendid. Another mess to clean.

The young woman gasped, crawling backward until she pressed flat to the gate, arms wrapping her legs as she inhaled sharply, intent clear in her terrified gaze.

Tom pinned her with a lethal glare. “Don’t scream.”

She gulped, lips trembling as she nodded frantically.

“Good girl. Stay put.”

He turned on his heel, walking casually to the center of the alley where the first man staggered to his feet, clutching his head, a thin bead of blood dripping from his hairline to his jaw. Meanwhile, his throatless companion fell face-down atop the cement, gurgling blood and spittle, movements slowing, red pooling beneath his still form.

The stumbling idiot caught sight of Tom at last, body locked with terror. “Whoa! Get the fuck away from me, man!”

Tom continued forward, unabated as the human staggered back, tripping over his own feet as he pulled something from his pocket, fumbling to keep his grip. A click, followed by a narrow gleam of metal. He held the switchblade aloft, arm trembling.

“I’ll kill you!”

Tom ripped the blade from his hand, tossing the toy aside. “Let me see your arm.”

The man blinked, colliding with the brick, staring after his discarded knife with visceral panic.

“Roll up your sleeve or I’ll sever the appendage from your body,” Tom instructed calmly, stopping a few feet away.

The human swallowed audibly, shrugging free of his coat and rolling up his sleeve with jittering movements. Tom’s gaze narrowed upon the pale expanse of flesh in the moonlight. No track marks. What do you know, his first pleasant surprise of the evening. He smiled, eyes glinting brighter than the forgotten blade. “This is what happens when your kind comes into my city.”

He reached out with blinding speed, gripping his prey by the head and shoulder and exposing his throat, surging forward with his fangs fully extended, twin daggers plunging into the pulsing artery with bruising force. He took four deep swallows, just enough to quell the worst of his gnawing hunger pains, a pitiful consultation prize to the burning appetite his Egyptologist had created. The scent of her blood still lingered upon him like a physical touch. Alas, this meager meal would have to suffice.

For now.

Tom pulled out of the man’s neck with a violent tug, widening the wound and stepping back, straightening his suit jacket as the human fell to his knees, blood cascading down his chest in a gleaming river. Tom adjusted his cufflinks and turned to the end of the alley as the man fell forward with a pained gasp, bright red coating his hands as he attempted to staunch the rapid flow.

A soft keen filled the dampened night. The girl watched his slow progress through horror-stricken eyes, shoulders drawing tight as she made herself as small as possible. Tom wiped the blood from his chin, carding a clean hand through his hair as he reached the huddled figure, gazing steadily upon her, considering. Though he was no longer driven by base hunger he wasn’t opposed to washing out the bitter taste in his mouth with something much sweeter…

As though she could read the direction of his thoughts she scooted sideways, colliding with a stack of busted crates, trapped and sobbing. “P-Please...” she gasped, tears streaming down her cheeks, tracking mascara in their wake. “Please don’t kill me.”

Tom sighed, the feral gleam in his eye fading at her broken plea. “Stand up.”

She blinked twice, as though confused by the command, but came to her senses in the next moment, struggling to rise on trembling legs. He inspected her disheveled figure from bottom to top. “Tell me your name.”

She pulled the tattered scraps of her blouse together, arms crossed tight over front, a meager shield. “Angelina.”

He watched in silence as she fussed with the remainder her clothing, pulling the hem of her bunched pencil skirt over scuffed knees, toes curling against the filthy pavement.

“You shouldn't travel alone at night, Angelina. Especially through this neighborhood.” His tone was edged in boredom, unsurprised with mortal stupidity at this point. He removed his jacket and held it out. She leaned back, startled by the swiftness of his movements, even more so by the offering, but accepted it with a trembling hand.

“T-Thank you,” she whispered, voice quivering, hysteria blossoming to life now that the adrenaline had ebbed. She slid her arms into the garment, swimming in its mass as she pulled it closed across her front.

“You don’t live here,” he stated, able to discern as much by her current predicament.

She shook her head. “I was meeting a friend after work.”

Tom raised a dark brow. Humans. They practically sought out a violent death. “That was very foolish.”

She closed her eyes, a lingering tear spilling free. He inspected her a hairsbreadth longer before stepping back, confident she wouldn’t cause a scene. “Get out of here.”

Her eyes snapped wide, bloodshot and glistening. He gestured to the mouth of the alley, impatience riding him hard as she finally pushed away from the gate.

“Thank you!”

She made it five feet before he called her attention back.

“One more thing.”

She stopped in her tracks, swaying precariously, muscles tensed as though braced for attack. He waited until she met his eye, casting an invisible net upon her.

“You’ll remember this night, their attack, your unbridled terror. You’ll remember how close you came to being raped and killed before narrowly slipping their grasp.” His eyes took on their metallic gleam, hypnotic. “You escaped on your own. You never saw me or the bodies. And you’ll never venture into this neighborhood alone again. Do you understand?”

She swallowed thickly, stare vacant and glazed. “Yes.”

He nodded, releasing her. “Go.”

She staggered in place, pressing a hand to her temple before spinning in a dazed rush and sprinting for the mouth of the alley, pausing only to collect her discarded heels, oblivious to the corpse lying a few feet away and the rapidly expanding pool of red beside it. A moment later she rounded the corner, her heartbeat blending into the traffic.

Tom shook his head. It was like herding mentally challenged cats. He paced to the body at the wall, staring down with bored detachment. And then he caught sight of the red drenching his shirt front, anger rapidly swelling.

Shite indeed.

It seemed his plans for the evening had changed once more. He could hardly pay Ms. Granger a visit looking like the creature she feared he was. Unlike their first encounter, his intention tonight wasn’t to terrify her. Quite the opposite. Alas, he needed to discard of the bodies before human law enforcement discovered them. Their cause of death was too suspicious to leave for daylight hours. By the time he finished sunrise would be fast approaching. Not nearly enough time to commandeer her; not with her supernatural abilities to contend with.

Tom leaned down, grabbing the corpse’s arm and dragging it towards its lifeless companion at the other end. There was little choice now. If he couldn’t go to Hermione…

He’d bring Hermione to him.

* * *

Harry took a steadying breath, squaring his shoulders before knocking, shuffling awkwardly in the narrow hall. To say he dreaded the impending conversation was a gross understatement. But he couldn’t leave things the way they stood. If something happened before they had the chance to reconcile… he’d never be able to live with himself. He’d already wasted two years. He refused to lose another second.

The door opened. He braced himself, then deflated as another face greeted him on the other side, complete with an obscene smile.

“Captain Potter,” Fred announced at deafening volume, crossing his arms and leaning into the frame. “We’re honored you deemed to grace us with your presence.”

“And what brings you to our humble abode?” George asked, appearing from thin air as though dropping in from a trapeze.

Harry sighed. Of course, this had to turn into a colossal pain in the ass. "Is Ron here?"

“Haven’t seen Ronniekins since this morning,” Fred responded, Cheshire grin still firmly affixed, setting Harry even more on edge.

“He wasn’t at the Burrow either,” Harry muttered, scratching the back of his head and glancing away. “If he comes by later, will you tell him…” He swallowed heavily, thinking better of it. “Nevermind.”

The twins exchanged a loaded glance, eyes gleaming bright.

“Do I scent a lover’s quarrel?”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“Sleeping in separate rooms, are we?”

Harry rolled his eyes, pushing away from the frame. “Thanks anyway.” He started to turn when a hand caught his arm, pulling him back.

"Oh come on, don't run off, we're just playing around," Fred laughed, throwing an arm around his neck, immune to Harry's scowl as he dragged him inside. "I'm starting to think you don't have a sense of humor outside of the ring."

George closed the door behind them. “Stick around, say hi to Charlie.”

Harry blinked, shrugging free of the restraining grip. “Charlie’s here?”

They laughed in unison.

"The caveman is drawing bison on one of these stone walls." George created a megaphone with his hands, shouting into the clothing-strewn hallway. "Charlotte! You have a gentleman caller!"

A muffled thump sounded. Harry glanced around the living room, pulse skipping at the unmitigated chaos covering every surface. Empty take-out containers balanced impressively high on the coffee table, cola bottles scattered atop the frayed carpet, accompanied by filthy socks and torn newspaper and what looked disturbingly like rat droppings—

A figure emerged in the hall, drawing his attention. A familiar sight, though slightly older and wilder than the last time he’d set eyes upon him. The elder Weasley brother wore his hair long, tied-back, and had acquired a series of tribal tattoos, intricate patterns decorating his bare chest and arms. But his smile was the same, warm and welcoming.

“Tarzan emerges,” Fred quipped.

“I hope we didn’t disturb your beauty rest,” his twin added.

“Do either of you have an off switch?”

“Yes. It’s called tequila.”

Charlie rolled his eyes, stepping over an upturned laundry basket and entering the main room. “Harry, good to see you.”

Harry nodded, attempting to meet him halfway before kicking over a broken alarm clock, the bell rattling twice and dying abruptly. “It’s been too long. Welcome home, Charlie.”

The man pulled him into a quick embrace. “I could say the same to you. How was California?”

Harry fought back a cringe, attempting to school his expression as they parted ways, knowing what was to follow. The question that _always_ followed—

“Holy shit. You get scratched out there?”

His heart jolted at the turn of phrase, plastering on a half-hearted grin and stepping back. “Afraid so. Glass on the mat.”

Charlie tilted his head, studying the scar. “Glass? That looks like a—”

Harry felt the blood drain from his face, something in the man’s assessing gaze causing his pulse to thrum erratically. But Charlie didn’t finish his statement, meeting his eye instead. Harry couldn’t read his expression, was terrified to know what he could possibly be thinking, but was saved from future suffering as Charlie cleared his throat. “Tough break,” he stated simply.

Harry released a slow breath, tension rapidly uncoiling. And then the twins stepped forward, flanking them on either side, eyes churning with mischief.

“Well, with that heartfelt reunion out of the way can we _please_ discuss your award-winning manipulation of Won-Won?” Fred asked.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose as Charlie glanced between them.

“Seriously, Potter,” George started. “We’ve sent him on some wild goose chases over the years but nothing quite compares to this.”

The elder Weasley lifted a brow. “What are they talking about?”

“Harry here convinced our sweet baby brother that Nosferatu is prowling the city at night, snatching up fair young maidens where they lay, our sister included.”

Harry closed his eyes, releasing a weary sigh. Charlie watched him carefully, smirking all the while. “I have a feeling they ad-libbed.”

“Excessively.”

“Please,” Fred scoffed. “You can’t improve on perfection.”

“Seriously, Potter, we’d fall down in worship if the carpet wasn’t full of tetanus.”

Guilt rode Harry hard, the urge to defend his friend bubbling in his throat. But he quelled the urge, knowing the can of worms it would open. He didn’t have time to convince the three of them right now.

Charlie seemed to sense his rising discomfort, turning to his brothers with a heatless glare. “Aren’t you idiots supposed to be at work?”

Their smiles dropped in unison.

“Thanks for the reminder, Buzz Kill Betty.”

“We apologize for the wet rag, Harry. The tattoos are obviously just for show.”

Charlie gestured to the door. “We’re missing you already.”

George swept into a low bow, backing away slowly. “Bon Voyage, Captain. We’ll finish this conversation later.”

Fred followed suit, throwing in a mock-salute. “We simply _must_ know how you worked your magic over on Ronniekins.”

Harry breathed a heavy sigh as they disappeared into the hall, the door closing on their dual cackles. Charlie shook his head, looking equally wind-blown by the twin hurricane. “Sorry about that. They’ve been unbearable these last two weeks. Overcompensating for Gin, I should think.”

“Oh yes. I can tell they’re miserable.”

Charlie’s expression sobered. “They are. Trust me. They just have a different way of showing it.”

Harry turned, glancing the wreckage surrounding them on all sides. "Well, they certainly don't channel their misery through cleaning."

“When they aren’t working they’re searching. They only come home to sleep every few days, hence the endless string of shitty puns. They haven’t had time to write any new material.”

Harry toed aside an empty bottle. “And here I thought they were losing their touch.”

Charlie sidestepped debris to the couch, leaning over to fish a rumpled shirt from behind a pillow, turning it right side out and tugging it overhead, his tattoos seeming to animate with the movement. “So…” He pulled the cotton down, concealing the ink from view. “Vampires?”

Harry blinked, eyes flickering up. “It’s a long story.”

“I’d be interested to hear it.” His blue gaze drifted to Harry’s scar, lingering. Harry scrambled for what to say, and then his own gaze drifted to the open window, the dark sky overlaying the vibrant city.

The sun had set.

 _Hermione_.

His body tensed. “Swing by Grimmauld and I’ll tell it to you.”

Charlie nodded, crossing his arms. “I’ll do that.”

Harry started to back away, fear mounting with each passing second. Time had gotten away from him. “It was great seeing you but I—”

“Have to go.”

Harry nodded, turning for the door.

“Thank you, Harry.”

He paused, hand halfway to the knob, glancing back in confusion.

“For helping us look for her,” Charlie continued, eyes seeming brighter than moments before.

Harry’s body pulsed, knees locking in place. “Nothing could stop me.”

They held each other’s gaze. Harry wet his lips, considering… and relented, gripping the knob tight. “Be careful out there. The City… it’s changed.”

Charlie tilted his head, appearing unphased by the warning. “Changed?”

Harry’s jaw clenched tight as he searched for the words. “Darker. More dangerous.” A brief pause. “Alive.”

Charlie smiled, teeth aligned and gleaming. “Then it’s no different from the jungle.” A short laugh. “I think I can manage.”

Harry wasn’t so sure. He tried to muster a parting smile but was too drained to accomplish the task. So he settled for a meaningful nod as he opened the door. “Let’s hope so.”

* * *

Parvati pinned her bottom lip between her teeth, tilting her body and adjusting the angle of the next throw, pulse soaring with victory as the rock clipped the edge of the window frame with a bang.

A man passed along the opposite end of the alley, eyeing her with interest. She pinned him with her most lethal glare, raising a fist. “Keep walking, asshole.”

He quickly glanced forward, pulling his collar high and lengthening his step. The window opened, drawing her focus upward. A pale face appeared on the second story, long hair cascading over the ledge like a fairytale princess.

“Luna!” She hissed, edging closer to the wall.

Her friend rubbed sleep from her eyes, blinking into the narrow alley. “Parvati?”

“Let me in!”

Luna nodded, pushing back and disappearing from sight. Parvati stepped before the door, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she tucked her hands into her pockets, only to still, overcome by the powerful sensation of eyes upon her. She glanced at the mouth of the alley, spotting the empty street ahead, and then into the darkness at the other end, seeing nothing but trash and stray cats.

The door opened, causing her to jolt, attention snapping forward. Luna eyed her carefully, pale brows creased. “Parvati? Are you alright?”

Parvati swallowed, struggling to keep her voice level. “I need your help.”

“Of course.” The blonde nodded without hesitation, stepping back. “Come in.”

Parvati stepped over the threshold, casting a quick glance around the dark shop as her friend locked the door at their backs. A candle sat on the counter, casting the surrounding shelves in a flickering glow.

“Something’s happened,” Luna stated, eyeing her warily.

Parvati nodded tightly, lips pressing thin.

“What is it?”

“Please…” Parvati closed her eyes. “Don’t make me say it.”

Luna stepped forward, gently grasping her arms, prompting her lids to part, gaze lost, desperate. The blonde held her stare, irises lightening until they were barely visible against the whites of her eyes.

And then the flashes started.

Images racing through her mind like clips from a film reel, seemingly random at first, then quickly focusing around a common theme. Lavender. Snippets of their fight, that last fateful exchange, the memory evoking a sharp pain in her chest. Followed by scenes of the morning after, waking to find her roommate's bedroom empty. The panic and devastation of seeing the bed untouched. She closed her eyes once more, resolve crippled by the onslaught, nowhere to hide from the waking nightmare unfolding within her own mind.

Until finally Luna blinked, hands tightening on her arms as the connection severed. Parvati’s thoughts settled, mind blissfully blank, the sudden emptiness more unsettling than the images themselves.

“Parvati, I’m so sorry.”

She clenched her jaw, opening her eyes and pulling out of the woman’s grasp. “I need you, Luna. I need you to help me find her.”

“Parvati, I’ll do everything I can, but you know my sight is limited.”

“You can see a person’s deepest darkest secrets. You can find the bastard who took her.”

“I can read surface thoughts of those in close proximity.” Luna’s face crumpled, stricken by her own words. “I can’t conjure visions out of thin air.”

Parvati's fists tightened at her sides, spine lengthening. “Then we’ll scour the city until we find someone who knows something.”

“They’d have to already be thinking about Lavender for me to take notice. And you know the energy it takes to read even one mind. I’d never be able to manage hundreds, thousands… it would take months.”

“Luna—” Her voice broke. She rocked in place, inhaling sharply and trying again. “Please. You’re all I have.”

Luna stepped closer, hands raising as though to reach out. “I’ll do everything I can, Parvati. I promise.”

Parvati’s vision blurred, tears welling beyond her control. She wiped them away at once. There wasn’t time for such outbursts. Crying did nothing.

“I’m scared, Luna. Something’s wrong. I know it.”

“Lavender is strong—”

“She isn’t strong!” She yelled, fire kindling to life in her chest, erupting in black smoke. “She’s soft and gentle and kind. Too kind, too trusting. That’s why she has me. That’s why we have each other. She needs me and I can’t find her. I can’t _help_ her—”

“Parvati, breathe.”

She shook her head frantically, grabbing handfuls of her dark hair and pulling at the root. “I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do, Luna.”

Luna grabbed her wrists, tugging her hands away. “I saw a man. From earlier today. You were arguing with him in the street.”

Parvati blinked, reeling with the statement. “Weasley?” She opened and closed her mouth, tamping the humorless laugh before it got away from her. “He’s harmless. And useless. Says he’s helping me search.”

The blonde nodded, still holding her arms. “Good.” And then she began pulling her towards the back of the shop. “Come upstairs. You’ll spend the night here, we’ll figure out what to do next.”

Parvati swallowed past the constriction in her throat, putting up no resistance as she shuffled after her friend, every step a painful feat. “Thank you.”

Luna smiled gently, grabbing the candle off the counter and stepping through the beaded curtain, leading the path to the stairs. To answers. To hope.

* * *

The golden doors parted with a soft chime. Tom stepped free of the elevator and started down the hall with measured steps, unbuttoning the front of his shirt as he went, the fabric stiff with dried blood. The door at the far end opened before he reached it, Abraxas standing sentinel on the other side, stature frozen but for the arch of a pale brow.

“Interesting night?”

Tom moved past him, tugging the hem out of his waistband. "Not especially." He shrugged free of the soiled garment and tossed it carelessly aside, the shirt landing over the back of a velvet armchair. His General stepped forward, picking it up.

“You didn’t find your Egyptologist then.”

“I was sidetracked.”

Abraxas’ pupils expanded as he brought the fabric closer, focusing upon the massive blood stain, swallowing thickly.

Tom started for the hallway, not bothering to glance back. “Go. Eat.”

His General stood at attention, dropping the fabric to his side and shaking his head, starting to speak.

“That’s an order,” Tom concluded, rounding the corner. “You’re no use to me distracted.”

The blonde nodded swiftly, following him into the hall. “Yes, Sir.”

Tom paused in the doorway of his bedroom. “Don’t return until sunrise.”

Abraxas seemed to consider the statement before nodding once again, realization dawning in his pale gaze. “I’ll unplug the phone.”

Tom reached for the doors on either side. “Going to wish me luck?”

Abraxas tipped his head, smirking faintly. "You joke, but with this one, you might actually need it."

Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes, closing the doors without a parting word, though he couldn’t help but mutter to himself, “I don’t doubt it.”

* * *

Harry raced across the rotting steps so quickly he lost his footing, clipping his shoulder against the splintered post as he reached the porch. He was an idiot for staying out so long, for not managing his time better. If anything happened—

He tore inside, darting across the entry and taking the grand staircase two steps at a time, panting like a racehorse as he emerged on the landing. He turned right, charging headlong into the hall and wrenching open the first door in his path.

The room was dark, illuminated by moonlight. But the Professor was safely in bed, still and pale as a corpse. Harry's heart skipped, he started to move inside and then saw the faint rise and fall of the man's chest beneath the sheets. He swallowed heavily, pulling back and closing the door with more care.

He moved to Hermione’s room next, opening her door gently, anxiety ebbing. Sure enough, she was safely tucked away inside, long hair draped over the pillow, hand softly curled beside her face. The covers were bunched at the bottom of the mattress, as though she’d kicked them off in her slumber, or perhaps fallen asleep before pulling them up. He suspected the latter, seeing as her nightstand lamp was still on.

He stepped inside, only to stagger back as a figure darted out from beneath the bed, eyes glowing with hell flame. The feline hissed, slashing out with a striped paw, claws fully extended. Harry scowled.

“Move, you little shit.”

The furry bastard growled. Harry’s gaze narrowed.

“Don’t try me.”

Its back arched high, ears flattening, taking on a feral stance that caused Harry to shift into boxing pose. He paused, shaking his head at his own stupidity.

“We’re on the same side. I’m trying to protect her, too.”

The feline seemed to consider the statement, wrinkled face frozen in grimace as it backed away slowly, leaping onto the edge of the mattress with silent agility and pacing beside Hermione, walking a tight circle before curling against her stomach, eyes narrowed above its bottlebrush tail.

Harry blinked.

_Did I just reason with a cat?_

He scrubbed a hand over his face, too fatigued to deal with any new insanity. Instead, he made his way to the side of her bed, hesitating before reaching down and smoothing an errant curl away from her face. She sighed, turning into the pillow. He watched her sleep for a moment longer before stepping to the foot of the bed and grabbing the covers, pulling them over her legs. The cat lifted its head, watching him closely, daring him to try anything else. Harry smirked, raising his hands in supplication and backing away.

“I’m leaving. Keep watch for me.”

Its amber gaze narrowed, outraged by his audacity to give it a command. Harry laughed softly, stopping to turn out her light and exiting the room on tiptoes, closing the door as though it was made of crystal. And then he slumped against the wall, desperate to put off the inevitable. But there was nothing for it. He couldn’t sleep in the hall and he refused to crash on the couch downstairs. He needed to be close to Hermione and her father, needed to protect them, as he’d promised.

So with a heavy heart and heavier step, he trudged to his own bedroom at the very end of the corridor. He'd chosen it for its large size, needing all the floor space he could get… despite the fact it sat directly across from the room he'd vowed to never step foot inside ever again.

He dismissed the treacherous thought as quickly as it came, opening the door to his temporary bedroom and switching on the light, illuminating the minefield scattered across the hardwood. He navigated along the perimeter of the baseboards, stepping over loose pages and newspapers as he went. At the center of the mess was a large map of the City, marked to high hell, detailing where they’d been and where they had left to search. Bits of broken tile and stones from the rock garden denoted crime scenes. He still needed to buy a proper notebook.

He tilted his head as he spotted the newspapers stacked neatly along the wall, leaning over to thumb through the pile, realizing they were organized in order of date.

Hermione.

He smiled. She must have discovered his makeshift office and taken it upon herself to tidy. Good, he needed all the help he could get. But right now what he needed most of all was _sleep_.

Harry hopped over the corner of the map and collapsed atop the squeaking mattress with a groan, only to roll over with a grimace, something hard prodding against his ribs. He fished for the mystery item in the rumpled comforter, chest tightening as his hand emerged with a book, still open to the last page he’d been reading the night before.

_Mythical Beasts of the Ancient World, Illustrated Guide_

Crap. He glanced to the wall, as though hoping to see Hermione through it, wondering if she’d discovered the tome during her exploration. He shook his head, answering his own question in the next beat. She’d never have left it open and buried beneath the blanket. Books were sacred to her, no matter their subject matter. He scooted higher, leaning against the headboard and gazing at the text before him, quickly skimming the passage.

_Vampyre_

_The modern legend of the blood-drinking creature most of us know today originates largely from Eastern European folklore of the late 17th and 18th centuries. However, tales of the undead rising from the grave to consume the blood and flesh of the living have been found in nearly every culture around the world since the dawn of storytelling._

_The Mesopotamians warned their kin of blood-drinking demons wearing the faces of the deceased. The Persians painted such creatures on excavated pottery shards while the Babylonians recorded the myth of Lilitu on papyrus, eventually giving rise to the Hebrew demon Lilith and the Babylonian goddess Lamashtu, both said to sustain on the blood of infants._

_The Ancient Greeks created several precursors to the modern vampire, the most notable being the striges who took the form of crows to hunt their living prey. This myth evolved by the time it reached Rome, giving rise to the Strigoï, a breed of vampire that could turn into strix, a nocturnal bird that fed on the flesh and blood of humans._

_In India, tales of the vetalas are recorded in ancient Sanskrit, blood-drinking ghouls inhabiting the bodies of corpses. In Jewish tradition, the Hebrew word “Alukah” is synonymous with vampire—_

A loud creak broke Harry’s focus. He glanced up, dropping the book to his lap. His door stood ajar, a thin sliver of moonlight from the hall window illuminated the closed door on the opposite side of the corridor. He swallowed thickly, staring upon the forbidden barrier for so long the rest of his surrounding turned to smoke. Harry blinked, rubbing his eyes and glancing down. The house was old, settling. Or perhaps it was haunted by vengeful spirits. What did it matter, anymore?

He sighed, picking up the book, only to freeze with shock. The pages had turned when he’d dropped it. He read the title of the new passage, palms sweating as he gripped the cover with white fingertips, the binding threatening to rip down the center. His entire body shook with his rattling heartbeat, gaze fastened upon the text printed beneath the gruesome illustration, vision dimming at the edges—

Another creak, louder than the first. Harry snapped the book shut, face flush with heat, feeling as though he’d been caught red-handed. He shoved the tome back under the covers, eyeing the empty doorway with hesitant eyes.

“Mione?”

A soft thump followed. His pulse echoed as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, carefully sidestepping the map and making his way to the door. He wiped his palms on his trouser legs, fighting the tremor in his limbs as he opened the barrier wide and stood rigid in the frame, glancing down the shadowed stretch of hallway.

Empty.

But the window at his side stood open, the sheer curtain swaying in the wind. He gripped the knob until it rattled. Had it been open when he arrived home? He shook his head. Obviously, it had been.

_Hermione opened it for a breeze._

He reached for the pane, beginning to slide it down, only for his gaze to fasten to the bright moon overhead. Nearly full. His heartbeat slowed, airway constricting as he tore his attention away, eyes drifting to the street below.

Terror seized him by the throat, choking his lungs completely. Adrenaline flooded his system in a nauseating rush, tipping him sideways.

For a shadowed figure stood in the middle of the road, facing the mansion, head tipped back.

Staring right at him.

Harry’s mouth ran dry, legs solidifying to stone. Unable to move, unable to run. No escape.

A breath ghosted across his neck.

He gasped, breaking from his frozen state and spinning on his heel, fists poised at the ready—

Only to reel back as he took in the sight before him. Mr. Granger stood still as a mannequin, eyes unnaturally bright, face illuminated by moonlight, the rest of his body bathed in darkness. Harry dropped his fists, swaying with relief.

“Professor, you scared—”

“You must tell him.”

Harry stilled. “What?”

“He needs to know, James.”

His heart skipped a painful beat, lips parting but speech failing him.

"It's not right to keep him in the dark," Mr. Granger pressed on, voice taking on a critical edge. "He needs to know. He needs to prepare before it's too late."

Harry released a slow breath, blood rushing through his ears. “Tell him what?”

Mr. Granger blinked, settling back on his heels as his eyes dimmed. Harry surged forward. “Profess—” He stopped short, changing tactics. “Richard, _what_ should I tell him?”

But the man’s gaze was vacant, expression lax. Harry carded both hands through his hair, mind reeling. The locked door at their side seemed to pulsate like a heartbeat. Alive. Beckoning.

Fuck he hated this house.

He looked to Hermione’s closed door at the other end of the hall, wondering if he should wake her. No. She needed her rest. He brought her here to protect her, to offer the help she desperately needed. He could handle this.

“It’s alright, Mr. Granger. Let’s get you back to bed.” He reached forward, taking the man’s arm. And then all at once, he remembered—

His spine turned to steel as he glanced over his shoulder, braced for war. The curtain continued to dance in the breeze, but beyond the foggy pane, the street stood empty.

Harry wet his lips, shoulders easing.

_It was always empty._

His jaw clenched tight as he faced forward, gently leading Hermione’s father down the hallway, away from the window, into the shadows.

* * *

Hermione sighed into her pillow, consciousness overtaking her all at once, senses firing to life as though she’d never been asleep at all. She turned her head, blinking into darkness, trying to make sense of the strange shapes in the shadows. Furniture, but not hers…

The memories settled upon her mind like a winter blanket, suffocating and heavy. A noise in the hall drew her attention away, displacing her disappointment with worry. She blinked, sitting upright and rubbing her bare arms, skin chilled. “Harry?”

A floorboard creaked outside her door, orange light emitting from the gap beneath. Her brow furrowed, gaze snapping to the window, trying to gauge the time. The sky was black. So black she couldn’t see a single star. She kicked her covers back and planted her feet to the ground, starting to rise, only to tip sideways into the bed, light-headed. The light under the door was broken by footsteps, someone standing just outside the barrier.

“Papa?”

Hermione pushed away from the bed, charging forward despite her vertigo, only to halt abruptly, startled by the cool air on her legs. She glanced down.

And gaped.

_What in the world..._

She pressed a hand to her middle, smoothing it along the beaded bodice of the silk gown, eyes skimming the glistening fabric to the floor, bare toes peeking out from beneath the onyx folds. She swallowed heavily, placing her other hand at her throat. The neckline plunged low, dangerously low, exposing far more than she’d ever willingly display. The dress was also sleeveless, leaving her upper half mostly bare.

_What’s happening? Where did this even come from? And how the hell did I get it on?_

She placed her hands at either side of her head, pressing against her skull.

_I’m losing my mind._

Her breath escaped in a rush.

_I have it._

Tears began to well. She wiped them away frantically, racing for the door, clutching the knob with both hands, mortified by her appearance but needing to see Harry immediately. He’d help her. He’d make it all better, somehow, he always made it better—

She wrenched the door wide, his name pressing heavy on her tongue, but when she gazed upon the hallway she found it empty except for the flickering glow of firelight. She glanced in either direction, the source of the light emitting from downstairs, casting long shadows along the walls and ceiling.

She wasted no time rushing to her father’s door, jerking the knob, only to find it locked. Dread seized her in its vice. “Papa!” She cried out, slapping her palms to the wood, beating frantically. “Harry, help me!”

“Hermione?”

She gasped at the sound of her friend’s voice. Distant, echoing, like he was at the bottom of a well. She spun on her heel. “Harry!”

“Hermione!”

Downstairs.

She raced for the landing, nearly tripping in her haste, the silk train chasing at her heels like a pool of ink. The skirt was slit along the side, stopping at her thigh, exposing her legs to the frigid mansion air as she stumbled down the steps, clutching the railing with both hands, eyes wide, pulse frantic.

The entry hall was lit by firelight as well, the orange glow emanating from the vaulted archway of the study. She sprinted across the uneven floorboards, gathering the skirt in both hands to prevent a nasty spill as she charged headlong through the doorway, relief saturating her every pore.

“Harry! Something is—”

Hermione staggered to a halt, feet skidding atop the scarred wood. The massive fireplace was in full blaze, flames lapping high, snapping, sizzling with hunger. A tall figure stood at the center of the hearth, facing the inferno, hands bracing the carved mantle, body adorned in pure pitch.

A figure she recognized well.

Her complexion paled, knees locking in terror. He continued to watch the fire dance before the brick, shadows flickering across the walls, casting macabre shapes as the crackling log echoed off the high ceiling. And then he spoke, voice low, unsettling in its utter calm. “Who’s Harry?”

She swallowed, fists balling tight, heels set in stone.

“A brother?” He continued, tilting his head in contemplation, dark hair gleaming in the light. “No,” he replied to his own inquiry. “A lover perhaps?” His voice deepened, vibrating through the floor and into her soles, up her calves, causing her knees to tremble and her thighs to clench. She flushed, startled and confused by her body’s reaction.

“Hm.” He pushing away from the mantle, the sharp line of his jaw coming into view. “I think not.” He turned to face her at last, eyes seemingly lit from within, burning brighter than the flames at his back. “A friend.”

Her pulse thrummed, heat washing over her skin, a feverish burn she couldn’t escape. He smirked, the very tips of his fangs visible, white, lethal. “Yes. That’s more like it.”

She rocked back with the intensity of his gaze, certain she would faint at any moment. “How did you find me?”

He slid his hands into his pockets, posture supremely eased yet perfectly refined. “I can find anything I want in this city.”

She clutched the silk folds draped along her thighs. “Why am I wearing this?”

His smirk gave way to a breathtaking grin. “I wanted to see you in silk.”

And then he started forward.

She wanted to run, to scream, but her panic was so great she came out the other side, an eerie sense of calm taking root within her mind. “Where is Harry?” She asked, amazed at the steady cadence of her voice.

His long legs made quick work of the divide. “Harry isn’t my concern.” He stopped just before her, broad shoulders blocking out the firelight, chest filling her vision. “You are.” And then he reached up, gripping her chin and tilting her head back, holding her gaze captive.

“I don’t have the jar,” she whispered, a powerful tremor racing along her limbs at his icy touch.

His eyes flickered between hers, the black of his pupils spreading, consuming the grey. “I don’t want the jar.”

Her heartbeat fluttered in her throat, against the back of her tongue. “What do you want?”

His smile turned sharp, knowing. He leaned in, just slightly, just enough to set off every alarm bell in her head. “I want you to tell me a story.”

Hermione blinked. A story?

He read the question in her bemused gaze. “Tell me how you came to possess the relic.”

She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, vision swimming as a fresh wave of panic washed overhead.

“Harry?” He prompted, able to discern the source of her unease. “I see.” His thumb stroked her chin, tracing along the edge of her bottom lip. “Now tell me what you did with it.”

She exhaled swiftly.

“Did you open it, Hermione?”

She swayed precariously. Her knees felt like rubber. She needed to distance herself from his all-consuming presence, needed to clear her senses of him… but the moment Hermione tore her gaze away she blinked in utter confusion. The room around them appeared hazy, muddled, a mirage in the desert. As soon as her eyes fastened to a particular item it solidified. The moment she glanced away it melted into her peripheral.

Almost like…

“A dream,” she whispered, wetting her lips. “This isn’t real…” She took a step back, out of his gravitational pull, vision rapidly clearing now that she’d spoken the words aloud. “I’m still asleep.”

The ground trembled beneath her feet, portraits rattling on the walls as a massive crack appeared in the plaster, debris spilling down. She glanced up, heart seizing as she caught the unmistakable flash of anger in his eyes, the hard set of his jaw just before he surged forward, capturing her with both arms, a steel band at her lower back holding her against his frame, his other hand gripping her throat, the pad of his thumb pressing her bottom lip.

“Look at me.”

The command radiated through every bone in her body, absorbed by her ribs and strangling her heart.

She didn’t want to obey, she really didn’t. And yet she desperately wanted to, more than anything. The tug of war within her mind was her own personal hell, as was the heat pooling at her center, the gnawing hunger in her gut, twisting her stomach into knots. Every nerve ending fired to life at once, overwhelming, terrifying. Something feral burrowing beneath her skin, taking her over from within.

“Did you come into contact with the ashes?” He demanded, voice guttural.

She released her breath in a rush, hot breath hissing against his thumb. “It was an accident.” She pressed her hands against his chest, nails clawing the dark fabric, pushing with all her strength to no avail. “I breathed some of it in.”

His eyes flashed, hands gripping her tighter, painfully. “The night of the power outage.”

Hermione nodded weakly, faint, unable to take a full breath against his iron hold. His thumb released her lip, tugging it down before resting at her chin.

“Do you know what I am?” He asked.

She licked her lips. “A vampire.”

His eyes tracked the movement, lingering at her mouth. “And do you know what you are?”

Her mind reeled with the question. "I don't understand."

“Yes. You do.” His fingertips pressed deep into her hip. She could feel the bruises forming, blood throbbing, pooling beneath his touch. “You’re changing, Hermione. You can feel it happening even now, can’t you?”

Tears blurred her vision. He leaned in, head dipping low. “And the only person who can help you is me,” he whispered, their lips separated by only a ghosting breath.

Her fists curled against his chest. “I don’t trust you.”

“I know. But all that matters is whether you believe me.”

She blinked quickly, tears overspilling her lashes. “I’ll die before becoming one of you.”

His smile bore perverse cruelty as he lifted a hand to her cheek, gently clearing the dampness. “I won’t let you die. You’re much too valuable.” He cupped the side of her face, palm cold as death. “I’ll merely stand aside and watch you kill the innocent.”

She wrenched back, as shocked by his words as the fact he released her without a fight. He watched her stagger back until she hit the archway.

“It’s not a threat. I’m simply letting you know what’s to come, luv. If you want to protect those around you, you’ll come to me.”

She pressed flat to the wall, nails raking the floral pattern until it started to curl. “I’ll _never_ come to you.”

“You will,” he spoke with such certainty she felt the ground shift beneath her. “The only question is how many lives you’ll take before calling out to me.”

Hermione shook her head, pushing away from the wall and tearing around the archway, emerging in the foyer, gasping as the stairs melted away before her eyes. She changed course, charging in the opposite direction, to the main door. It flew open of its own accord, answering her cry of silent terror. She dashed across the sunken porch and stumbled down the steps to the cobblestone, gathering her skirts as fog caressed her ankles, rolling across the dead lawn in billowing waves. She reached the gate, grabbing the curving iron with both hands and pulling the heavy door wide, ivy scraping at her arms, tangling in her hair. She slipped through the narrow opening, across the sidewalk and into the street, staggering to a halt at last.

The road was dark, the homes colorless, a scene from a black and white film. The street lights flickered in the cul-de-sac. Hermione backed away slowly, jolting as the bulb burst, glass and sparks raining to the asphalt. She spun promptly, sprinting for the intersection at the other end. The lamps flickered and burst one by one, darkness swelling, chasing at her heels. She choked back a scream, willing her mind to wake, to deliver her from this nightmare. At last she reached the adjoining road, slowing, debating which direction to turn next—

But was spared from having to choose, the rolling fog rising up up up, overtaking her vision. She sucked in a sharp breath, coughing a lungful of bitter smoke as she spun in frantic circles, losing all sense of direction. Hermione saw nothing beyond the white cloud surrounding her… yet sensed a presence drawing near, followed by the click of footfalls against the pavement, slow and methodical. She pressed a hand to her mouth, shuffling back, ankle hitting the curb as she attempted to navigate blind, desperately trying to gauge the direction of the footsteps.

And then all fell silent, eerily so. She held her breath, unable to hear anything beyond the rapid thrum of her own heart, the powerful surge of her blood. She rose onto tiptoes, edging backward, eyes wide, searching the dense fog—

Only to hit a firm barrier, screaming outright as she tried to scramble away. But arms appeared from the mist, ensnaring her middle and drawing her back. The rest of his figure took shape, the fog clearing a path at his silent bidding. He pressed her against his front, heartbeat centered between her shoulder blades, calm, steady. An arm snaked across her middle, a large hand gripping her hip while the other wrapped around her neck, fingertips pressing her fluttering pulse.

He lowered his head beside her own, lips grazing the shell of her ear. “Come with me willingly, Hermione, and your loved ones can live in peace.” She shivered, warm breath cascading over her bare shoulder. “Or watch them die one by one, starting with Harry.” He squeezed her throat in warning, each word a dark promise. “And then I take you anyway.”

She swallowed desperately, feeling the movement along his fingers, gritting her teeth. “You’re lying.” She tipped her head back, meeting his gaze. “You don’t know even know where I am.”

His smile was mesmerizing, sending her pulse into overdrive as he pressed his lips to her hair, breathing in her scent. His eyes turned hooded, mouth dropping lower, hovering just above the skin, so close she felt electricity mark its path. He tilted her head aside, exposing the junction at her neck and shoulder, lips parting to reveal glittering fangs. Their sharp tips grazed her skin, dimpling the flesh. She sucked in a sharp breath, waiting for the lethal strike. But it was his words that struck the killing blow.

“I do now.”

The declaration confused her, the amusement in his voice more startling than the teeth lingering at her artery. She blinked rapidly, eyes flickering up as the fog began to rapidly fall, settling atop the dead earth like a blanket. A metal pole came into view. A street sign proudly displayed at its peak.

**GRIMMAULD**

He released her neck, whispering softly in her ear. “See you soon, Hermione.”

The arm at her waist disappeared, as did the firm pressure at her back. She barely had time to process his absence before the street parted wide, swallowing her whole, sending her into a pitch black freefall…

Hermione awoke with a gasp, thrashing atop the mattress as her eyes flew wide. Sheets tangled around her legs, restricting her movements, the comforter piled on the floor. She gazed around frantically, taking in her surroundings, settling with a heavy sigh. Crookshanks keened at her side, eyes slit, unappreciative of the violent wake-up call. She wet her lips, mouth startling dry as she scratched his head in apology. Her arms felt leaden, head stuffed with cotton, every movement a feat. The sunlight was blinding, invading the room in heavy strips from the gaps in the shutters. She turned her face away, closing her eyes...

And remembered the dream, every stunning detail.

Crookshanks edged closer, kneading her thigh and purring loudly, claws prickling the thin sheet. She drew a hand over her face, sweat beaded along her temples and upper lip. Hermione licked it away, tasting salt on her tongue and uttering the only coherent thought she had left.

“Shit.”


	7. Catherine Wheel

_“There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.”_  
~ Mary Shelley, Frankenstein  
.   .   .

Hermione pushed up slowly, head swimming as she turned vertical. She took a steadying breath before swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Crookshanks landing before her in a silent pounce. He darted to the door, tail straight as a reed as he glanced back. She trudged after him, reaching for her robe on the hook with an unsteady hand. Blood rushed through her ears but did nothing to quell the menacing whisper possessing her mind, every word crisp and clear and haunting.

_“I do now.”_

Her eyes snapped wide as she wrenched the door wide, fear seizing her with both hands. Crookshanks disappeared down the hall in a blur of motion, paws echoing down the staircase. She rushed to her father’s door, pulling her robe closed and rounding the open frame. Sunlight spilled across the slatted floor and bed, the comforter pulled tight across the mattress, smooth and pristine and barren of life.

Hermione drew in a sharp breath, preparing to call out when male laughter met her ears, muffled and distant. She turned on her heel, following the sound to the staircase, tension easing with every step. Until halfway down, when she flashbacked to the dream, overcome with the memory. The flickering glow of the fire, the terror in her heart as she clutched the railing with both hands, navigating these same stairs barefoot and shrouded in silk.

_“Come with me willingly, Hermione, and your loved ones can live in peace.”_

She descended faster, hopping the last step and charging through the archway, following the melodic flow of her friend’s voice to the expansive kitchen, rounding the corner onto the checkerboard tile and staggering to a halt.

Harry stood before the wood burning stove covered in flour, even his hair, the dark strands cast grey by powder. She blinked, gaze flickering to her father seated behind the breakfast bar, silent and smiling, his eyes fixed upon the disastrous chef before him.

“Okay, this one’s gonna be perfect, I can feel it,” Harry stated, stepping back with a frying pan in hand and flipping the most misshapen pancake Hermione had ever seen into the air. Its uneven mass botched its downward trajectory. He reached out with lightning reflexes, catching the cake before it hit the ground, hissing as he threw it back into the pan.

“Ah! Crap!”

He shook his hand, pressing the blister to his lips and tossing the pan aside. Hermione pressed a hand to her own mouth, fighting laughter. Harry glanced back at the sound.

“Mione! You’re just in time. Stand still, I’ll flip this next one to you.”

She stepped fully into the brightly lit room, tying the front of her robe. “You’ll do no such thing, Harry Potter.”

“Ah, come on.”

She smiled, shaking her head and pacing closer. Crookshanks darted in from behind, stopping at the edge of the island and flicking his bushy tail, eyes fixed to the countertop.

“So, how did you sleep?” Harry asked, scraping his masterpiece from the bottom of the pan onto a plate.

Her smile instantly faded. He missed the look of panic that flashed across her features, her expression schooled by the time he turned around.

“Actually—”

Crookshanks leaped onto the breakfast bar, skidding into one of the empty plates and knocking it off the edge. Harry dove, catching it halfway down, scowling all the while.

“Little bastard.”

The feline mewled at the insult, eyes narrowed. Hermione sighed, grabbing him around the middle and setting him on the floor.

“Hungry?” Harry asked, reaching for the plate once more.

“Harry—”

“Full disclaimer, we didn’t have any milk so I had to get creative with the flavoring.” He glanced across the counter, winking at her father. The latter continued to smile, though his eyes appeared adrift.

She tilted her head, examining the strange offering on the plate. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“Best you don’t.” He cut into the middle with a fork. Hermione blinked.

“Are those beans?”

He shrugged slightly. "Protein and fiber, a well-rounded breakfast."

She shook her head, trying to regroup. “Harry, about last night—”

“I already know what you’re going to say.”

His words cut her mind adrift. “I… somehow doubt that.”

“I’m glad you found it,” he stated simply.

_Found it?_

“Found what?”

He lifted a dark brow. “My research.”

Hermione opened and closed her mouth, realization slowly dawning. “In your bedroom.”

He nodded, setting the fork aside. “I know it looks a mess but I promise, I’m going to get it all in order. I’m going to find her.”

Hermione gripped the counter, heart sinking like a stone.

“I’ve gotten distracted too many times since arriving home,” he continued. “But Ginny is my number one priority from now on. She needs me and I won’t let her down.”

She swallowed thickly, nails pressing crescent indentations into the wood.

“I’m going to get organized, plan out my days so I can cover as much ground as possible, searching at night isn’t ideal but I’ll figure something out.”

She swayed in place. Harry blinked. “Mione, you alright?”

She nodded quickly. “Yes, I’m fine.” And then forced a smile, hoping it appeared reassuring. “I believe in you, Harry.” A steadying breath. “And I want to help.”

“You’ve already done everything you can—”

“No, there’s something else I can try. A resource I haven’t tapped. It only occurred to me the other day.”

His expression housed an obvious reluctance.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I just… don’t like the thought of you leaving the house.”

She reared back, lips parting as a barrage of arguments rampaged through her mind.

“You know what I mean,” he continued quickly, raising his hands in surrender. “It’s dangerous for anyone, and you’re a known target.”

“I won’t hold myself up inside the house. Besides, I have a job to do. I’ll be heading into work tomorrow morning—”

“Hermione—”

“ _Harry_ ,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “I won’t lose my job. It’s all I—” Her words fell short, eyes flickering to her father seated beside her, silently gazing at the cabinets. “It’s important to me,” she rephrased, glancing back to Harry. “And they’re relying on me to get the exhibit up and running.”

Harry held her gaze for another agonizing beat, seeming to weigh the merits of pushing the subject further. And then his shoulders dropped, the telling gesture sending relief buzzing through her spine.

“Just be home before dark.”

She nodded quickly. “I’ll call Susan, see if she’s available for a few hours today.”

“Susan?”

“An at-home nurse. She’s just out of school but the best we’ve ever worked with. Papa adores her.”

Harry tilted his head. “She probably reminds him of you.”

Her chest tightened at the thought. Harry pushed away from the counter.

“After you call go ahead and meet with your contact. I’ll wait for her to arrive.”

Hermione shook her head. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s alright. I still need to clean up here… _after_ making some eggs, I don’t think I can eat this.” He gestured to his mangled breakfast plate. Hermione smiled. “Besides,” he continued. “I like being around him. He reminds me of dad.”

Her chest loosened at once, filling with warmth.

“Thank you, Harry.”

She touched her father’s arm, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek before turning for the doorway.

Crookshanks leaped onto the counter the moment her back was turned, waiting patiently for his moment to strike. She laughed at Harry’s heavy groan, glancing over her shoulder. “He likes treats.”

Her friend peered up, Crookshank’s bushy tail grazing his chin.

“In case you were considering an olive branch,” she added with a wink.

His emerald gaze narrowed.

She laughed once more, entering the hall and rounding the corner, on the hunt for the rotary phone, amusement fading with every step.

_What am I doing?_

She drew a hand through her hair, detangling curls with her fingers, cringing as she struck a particularly large knot.

_Ginny needs Harry more than I do._

Her eyes glinted as she entered the main hall, shoulders squaring with determination.

_I can take care of Tom Riddle myself._

* * *

Ron twitched, caught in the midst of fitful sleep, only to jolt awake by a sharp pain to his shin. His entire body sprang to life like a live wire as he tipped sideways and clutched his leg.

A baby wailed in the distance, but the steady tap tap tapping beside his head drew the entirety of his focus. He pushed upright, eyes fixed on the shoe clapping the carpet, mirroring his rapid pulse.

“What the hell are you doing here, Weasley?”

He blinked, glancing up to meet the perpetually scowling face of Parvati Patil. Which was just as well. He was brewing for a fight. “ _Where_ have you been?”

The impatient tapping ceased at once. “Excuse me?”

“You were out all night?”

“That’s none—”

“You know how dangerous the city is, what the hell were you thinking?”

She gaped, too enraged to form words for a good five seconds, long enough for Ron to scramble to his feet.

“I work nights, _idiot_ ,” she recovered at last. “And where I decide to sleep is my own goddamn business.”

“Lavender is missing. Do you really think adding your disappearance to the list is going to help her?”

She reared back, struck by the force of his seething words, hurt etching her features. But the elusive emotion was quickly replaced by rage as she surged forward, finger pointed in his face. “Listen here, asshole, I don’t know who you think you’re talking to but—”

“Oi!” A new voice shouted, the door across the hall opening to reveal a half-dressed woman. “Yell at your little boyfriend outside or kick his ass to the curb already! Some of us are trying to sleep!”

Parvati waited until the door slammed shut then rounded on him with renewed vengeance. “Listen good, Weasley, because I’m only going to say this once.” She pressed close, voice low and menacing. “I agreed to let you help me look for Lavender, _not_ dictate my every move. I know you’re into paying for your kicks but I’m not going to obey your every command. You got that?”

Heat infused his face, pooling in his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “It’s not like that with Lav,” he uttered, voice strained.

“I don’t want to know _anything_ about your arrangement. I want you to leave.”

His jaw tensed. “Look, it isn’t safe out there.”

“No shit, I’ve lived in this city my entire life.”

“It’s more than that, there’s—” his eyes flickered to the neighbor’s door.

Parvati arched a dark brow, tapping her foot once more. “ _Yes_?”

He carded a hand through his hair, leaning against the wall. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Probably not. Now get lost.”

He dropped his arm. “Why do you hate me so much, Patil? Why come to me for help if you think I’m the scum of the earth?”

She blinked, falling unnaturally still as the silence fettered them in place. And then, to his great consternation, she glanced away first, pulling the keys from her bag and marching to her door. “Fine. You have two minutes to spout whatever bullcrap is stirring around in that dipshit head of yours.”

Ah. That was more like it.

She shouldered open the door, gesturing with her chin. “In. Before the neighbors call about the useless vagrant sleeping in my hall.”

“Fucking hell.”

He stepped inside, entering the crumbling apartment and thinking twice about his earlier concerns for her welfare. After all, if anyone could send a vampire running in the opposite direction, it was certainly Parvati Patil.

* * *

Theo awoke with a choked gasp, drawing back from his slumped position over the desk, cringing as his forehead peeled off the hard surface. He wiped the lingering drool from his cheek, blinking dazedly into the green light as he searched out the clock on the wall. There was no concept of day or night in this windowless bunker, sleep something he engaged in only when absolutely necessary. Alas, he had obviously passed out while working. He supposed that qualified as necessary.

He staggered to his feet, metal scraping cement as the stool pushed back. His spine was stiff, elbow sore from being pinned between the counter and his head. But he quickly dismissed the aches, striding for the row of cages with fresh purpose. It was essential to record Abigail’s condition every hour. His data would be skewed now. Fuck.

He lifted the edge of the sheet draping her container.

And promptly froze.

A white mass lied at the center of the wood shavings, belly up and legs stiff. Her ruby eyes remained open, clouded in death. He set his jaw, dropping the sheet and shaking his head.

“Damn!”

He kicked the nearest bin, sending it rolling on its side, foot throbbing with the effort.

_Get a grip. There’s still work to do._

The thought drove him forward. He retrieved his gloves, pulling them tight before moving back to the cage and lifting the lid, carefully extracting her corpse. The body held its position. She'd been dead for hours. Double fuck. He could only hope her blood and tissue samples were still viable.

_Can’t believe I fell asleep like a fucking infant..._

He made his way to the lab table, placing her atop a tray beside the carcass and reaching for the scalpel—

He blinked.

Wait.

Where the hell was the carcass?

Theo stared at the plate beside Abigail. Empty, save for a blood stain. He stepped back, eyes skimming the counter in confusion before kneeling down and searching the ground, wondering if he knocked the table without notice, perhaps in sleep. His eyes narrowed, studying the pool of blood collected atop the cement, just beside the table leg.

His heart skipped.

He rose swiftly and drew back, only to spot another glossy red droplet nearby. And another, and another.

A trail.

… well then. That couldn’t be good.

His hands clenched, rubber groaning between his fingers as he picked up the scalpel and positioned it like a dagger, poised to strike as he followed the droplets across the laboratory. Every step caused pressure to swell against his ribs, crushing his lungs, until at last he reached the opposing wall, stopping beside the metal table and its sheet-covered corpse, the body laid out like a ritualistic sacrifice with white, bloodless feet protruding from the end of the fabric. But there was an anomaly among the macabre scene that drew Theo’s gaze like a magnet. A blood stain marking the white cotton, near her left ankle, centered over a twitching lump.

He raised the blade overhead, reaching for the covering with a trembling hand. He held his breath and seized the corner, pulling it quickly and staggering back as he came face to face with the mangled mouse carcass, still very much alive.

Its back paw was missing, severed cleanly by Theo’s own hand. Its tail was half gone, along with half its face and one of its eyes. The empty socket remained fixed upon Theo, chest heaving, skin missing across its middle, glossy ribs on full display. Blood-caked whiskers twitched, jagged teeth bared as it hissed like a feral cat.

And then lunged.

Theo released an undignified shout, staggering back so quickly he nearly lost his footing, catching himself against a rolling cart as the mouse shot through the air with astounding speed and agility. It twisted mid-flight, barely missing him as it hit the cement, scurrying into the shadowy corner.

“Fuck!”

His voice was edged in hysteria, entire body vibrating with shock and terror as he glanced around frantically, upturning a metal bowl in his haste, instruments striking the floor in an explosive crash. He jolted hard at a scratching noise to his left, cold sweat saturating his every pore as the creature’s monstrous shadow projected across the opposing wall as it darted before the standing lamp.

Theo raced for the shelves, grabbing a beaker and holding it out like a shield, wielding the scalpel like a sword, gaze sweeping the floor.

“Alright…” He squared his shoulders, fighting the urge to run for the stairs, research and world peace be damned. “Come here, dead little mouse, come to Theo.”

He shook his head.

_I’ve officially lost the plot._

“Are you hungry?” He pushed on, twitching at every noise, his own footsteps included. “I’m sorry I cut off your foot.” He turned in a tight circle, afraid to blink. “In my defense, you didn’t look like you’d be needing it again.”

Another noise sent his pulse into overdrive, closer, louder, near the shelves. He spun, muscles coiling at the high-pitched screech of metal. He bit his tongue, threatening to render it cleanly off as he forced himself nearer, every step one foot closer to insanity.

_This can’t be real. Surely I’m still asleep at my desk..._

A container on the top shelf moved. Theo blinked, shoulder blades drawn so tightly they practically merged. The shelving was dark, overflowing with crap. Why the hell did he own so much crap? He edged closer yet, leaning forward, brows creased.

“Where the fuck are you…”

The response was immediate. The mangled bastard leaped out from between packed bins, its remaining eye narrowed with bloodlust as it aimed for Theo’s head.

Theo screamed and tipped back, reactions too slow, the creature adhering to his chest with needle claws, rapidly scurrying for his face.

“Shit!”

He thrashed like a man on the torturing rack, managing to knock the vicious beast aside and into the neighboring wall. It bounced off the brick as though composed entirely of rubber, landing atop the ground in a silent pounce and charging ahead once more, unhampered by its missing limb. Theo stomped manically, trying to kill it underfoot, only for the blasted creature to leap onto his pant leg.

“Christ!”

He shook his leg until he was in the midst of a full-body fit, succeeding only in losing his balance and crashing to the ground, knocking the air from his lungs with the jarring impact. The creature was at his stomach, en route to his chest, burrowing beneath his vest. Theo released an enraged battle cry, dropping the scalpel to bat his attacker with a closed fist, knocking it aside once more. It rolled several times before springing up, shaking its head and charging for the baseboards.

Theo flipped onto his stomach and lunged with the beaker, movements quick and clumsy, chin scraping the ground as he reached forward with every bit of strength left within him. His eyes gleamed feral as he slammed the container down, victory splitting his chest wide as he trapped the beast underneath. It hissed and thrashed, charging the walls repeatedly. But the double-plated glass held. The creature stopped its tantrum at last, glaring out from the center of its enclosure, holding Theo’s eye without blinking. Or breathing.

Theo panted wildly, aches and pains roaring through his body like a raging fire as the adrenaline faded. He rose to his knees, holding the beaker down with both hands, never breaking the animal’s gaze.

"Well…" he uttered, blood dripping from his chin. "This is an interesting development."

* * *

Tom’s eyes flickered across the page, speed reading the newest report, narrowing with every word.

Another shipment seized aport, its cargo confiscated.

He clenched his jaw, dropping the document atop the pile and leaning back in his chair.

Smuggling liquor was an enterprising endeavor, a golden ticket in such times of social and economic unrest if you had the wits and skills necessary to take the plunge. But it required dealing with the human authorities on a regular basis, Tom's least favorite past time. Which was why he left the task to Abraxas more often than not, his General's endless store of patience resulting in far less bloodshed than Tom was known for producing.

“Seems we’ll have to pay the good Sergeant another visit,” Tom uttered, rubbing his brow to quell the oncoming migraine.

Abraxas peered up from his own sea of paperwork at the opposite end of the office. “They’ll want a larger bribe no doubt.”

“I won’t pay the NYPD another cent. They’ve been a thorn in our side from day one.” Tom closed his eyes, tilting his head back to alleviate the tension in his neck. “I’ll deal with the problem personally.”

His General watched him closely. “You should sleep. Especially after a visitation.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Every pun intended.” He opened his eyes, leaning forward to settle his elbows atop the desk. “Have you found anything?”

Abraxas closed the ledger. "Her records seem in order. Though there are a few receipts I'm still waiting on."

“If she’s cooking the books again I’ll kill her myself.”

Tom reached for another page, another fire to extinguish. There was so much to oversee on a daily basis, not including his Master’s upcoming arrival. He had to make sure everything was in order, every account balanced, every red carpet rolled out. He’d worked too bloody hard to have the City taken from him.

Not now. Not when victory was so close at hand.

Tom thumbed through the stack of reports idly.

_He isn’t coming to check the company ledgers._

_He’s coming for the relic._

His gaze drifted to the window, the glass blocked by a thick metal blind. He tilted his head, mind drifting, too exhausted to stay on course this morning.

“Do you remember what it feels like?”

Abraxas glanced up from his work, lifting a pale brow.

“Sunlight,” Tom clarified, drumming his fingertips along the glossy mahogany, eyes fixed to the blind.

His General blinked, spine straightening in the leather-backed chair. “I… don’t think so.” The silence pressed, heavy and absolute. “Do you?”

Tom’s gaze narrowed, considering his own question carefully. “Sometimes I think I do. But perhaps it’s a false memory. Hard to keep them sorted anymore.”

Abraxas nodded slowly. “Time is merely an illusion.”

Tom leaned back, rapidly shifting focus once more. Back to the larger issue at hand, the first and most pertinent item on his ever growing to do list.

“I want you to pay a visit to Waverly this evening.”

Abraxas settled his paperwork into a pristine stack. "I thought she vacated the premises?"

Tom turned his attention to the next item in the pile. Saturday’s police report. Another missing person. “I made her my offer. I’m curious to see how she’ll react.”

A long beat. Abraxas watched him carefully. “You’re really giving her a choice?”

Tom barely quelled his laughter. “Of course not.” He peered up, eyes reflecting the stained glass of the Tiffany lamp. “I’m merely giving her the illusion.”

* * *

Harry turned to the center island, pulling the rind from a piece of ham. He’d spent the morning cooking an edible breakfast for himself and Richard, then cleaning the wreckage left behind on the counters and stove. Hermione’s father now sat at the window, gazing at the desolate backyard without expression while her demented cat perched atop the edge of the counter, tail swishing back and forth as it watched Harry’s hands and licked its chops.

He raised a dark brow, movements stilling as he gazed upon the animal, Hermione’s words washing over him in a soft ripple. He tore off a bite-sized piece and held it aloft. The feline stood at once, padding forward and sniffing the offering as though searching out poison. Harry sympathized, equally paranoid the creature would bite him just for the principal of it. But after a long, skeptical beat, the cat accepted the treat, chewing with a surprisingly delicate bite.

Harry smirked, tearing off a second piece and handing it over with more confidence, debating whether he should pet the ugly beast as well, only to quickly dismiss the notion. Best not to push his luck.

A knock echoed into the kitchen.

Harry glanced up, dropping the ham to the counter as he navigated around the island, much to Crookshank’s hungry delight. He wiped his hands on his pant legs and started a path for the front door. Susan was early. He carded a hand through his hair, doing nothing to tame the mess, and opened the barrier wide, smiling politely.

“Hi, you must be—” He blinked, meeting the distinctly familiar and heavily guarded gaze from the porch. “Ron.” Harry rocked back, gripping the frame and quickly recalibrating. “I’m so glad you’re here. I looked for you yesterday—”

“Should I give you boys some privacy?”

Harry blinked, leaning to the side and spotting the girl slumped against the post, dark hair woven into a thick plait over her shoulder.

“Harry,” Ron stated, shifting back. “This is Parvati.”

She cringed, standing away from the beam. “Christ, it’s creepy hearing you say that.”

Ron shook his head in annoyance. “This is _Patil_.”

Harry stepped forward, offering his hand. “Nice to meet you.” She did the same, placing her palm in his own. Harry smirked, glancing back to his friend. “Why am I meeting her?”

“I haven’t the faintest clue,” Parvati replied, releasing his hand to cross her arms and glare at his friend. “But it had _better_ be good or you’re officially banned from speaking to me ever again.”

Ron held his stare. “Isn’t she wonderful?”

Harry laughed, stepping back and pressing the door wide. “Do you want to come in?”

She craned her neck, eyeing the black shutters on the second-story as they banged in the wind. “Not really. Looks like Dracula’s Castle.”

Both men stiffened, expressions tense.

She blinked, glancing between them. “Oh, I get it. This is all part of the song and dance, right? Is some moron in a cape and plastic fangs waiting in the closet to scare the shit out of me?”

Harry opened his mouth, glancing to his friend once more. "You told her."

“I tried to, but clearly she isn’t taking the danger seriously. I thought you might help me convince her.”

She began tapping her foot, drawing their collective gaze. “I agreed to come on _one_ condition: I get to call the mental institution afterward. Perhaps they'll let you boys room together."

Harry’s shoulders tensed at the casual threat. “This is a bad idea.”

“No worries.” She winked. “I’m sure you’ll look just as handsome in a straitjacket.”

“She’s helping me look for Lavender,” Ron stated, ignoring her entirely. “I want her to be prepared for what she may encounter on the streets.” He lifted his chin, gaze darkening. “I won’t let those bastards snatch another girl.”

Harry deflated with a sigh. Fuck. He stepped further back, gesturing them inside. “Come on then.”

They both entered slowly, eyeing the structure distrustfully as Harry closed the door at their backs. He turned to meet Ron’s eye, still burdened by the weight of the unspoken words between them but deciding it best to ignore the elephant in the room until they had privacy.

Parvati walked to the center of the entry and spun in a slow circle, taking in the aged antiques, the dangling cobwebs and intricate crown molding. “Holy hell, this place looks straight out of a horror film.”

Harry gave the room his own disgruntled once over. “Tell me about it.”

Something fell in the kitchen, the metallic bang echoing loudly to where they stood.

Harry tensed.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Is someone else here?” Ron asked.

Harry opened his mouth, hesitating. Parvati watched him as well, curiosity brimming in her dark eyes. He wet his lips, scrambling for what to say. But there was no point in lying, not now. Richard was unpredictable, and Harry couldn't very well hide an entire human being. Besides, after his last fight with Ron, he wasn't keen on driving the wedge any deeper.

“The Professor,” he stated simply.

Ron tilted his head, processing the information for several seconds before straightening. “Mione’s here?”

“She just left.”

Ron’s brows creased. Harry trudged on. “She needed someone to look after him for a bit.”

“What happened to Susan?”

Another noise rattled in the kitchen. Harry started backing away. “I’ll explain later. You guys can head to the parlor, I’ll be there in a few.”

“The parlor?” Parvati repeated, lips curving in a wry grin. “Christ, I feel like a debutante.”

Harry smirked. “You haven’t seen it yet.”

“Has a collection of human skin furniture, does it?”

“Only the lamp shades.”

He turned for the hall, making a beeline for the other end of the house. His heart seized when he turned the corner and entered the kitchen, empty of human inhabitants. One of the cupboards stood open, upside down pot on the floor, its lid several feet away.

“Mr. Granger?”

Silence greeted him.

“Shit.” He started down the hall, calling out. “Richard?” But still, nothing.

_Mione’s gonna kill me._

And then, as though summoned by the simple thought of her, Crookshanks darted out from behind Harry’s feet, weaving between his ankles and successfully scaring the shit out of him.

He stumbled, catching himself against the wall and glaring down. So much for the peace treaty. The cat sprinted down the corridor and stopped at the connecting hall, glancing back with an expectant look, tail standing straight on end. Harry blinked. Then pushed away from the wall, following. Crookshanks led him around the corner and into an abandoned wing, taking off ahead and disappearing through a set of glass inlaid doors at the far end, the barrier parted wide.

The Conservatory.

Harry paled, step quickening. He could have sworn he’d locked those doors.

He paused at the threshold, gazing up at the domed glass roof before rapidly searching the terrain for any sign of life. The plants within were long dead, vines hanging in brown, broken tendrils. A garden of dust and decay.

He started forward, dried leaves crunching underfoot, spotting flashes of orange between cracked pots and warped flower boxes. Harry followed alongside the feline until he was nearly to the other end of the structure. And then he rounded a row of petrified trees, pulse soaring as he spotted his target at last.

Harry approached slowly from behind, rendered mute by the man’s utter stillness. Richard gazed down with such rapt focus it drew Harry’s own emerald gaze. His steps faltered as the plaque came into view. Black marble and cursive lettering, matte with dust. His eyes flickered higher, spotting the statue before Richard’s frozen form.

Harry glanced away quickly, unable to look directly upon it. He’d forgotten it was here. Or perhaps he’d blocked it out. It didn’t matter. He would lock and barricade these doors and never have to see it again.

He stopped directly behind the man, reaching forward and touching his shoulder tentatively, receiving no reaction.

“Mr. Granger?”

Richard blinked, rocking in place, as though waking from a stupor. He glanced up, meeting Harry's eye with a dazed look.

“Hello there.” He tilted his head back, peering at the fogged roof. “I think I got turned around.” He glanced back to Harry with guileless eyes, so reminiscent of Hermione it made Harry’s chest ache. “Can you tell me where I am?”

Harry dropped his arm. “You’re in the garden.” He forced a gentle smile. “Perhaps you’d like to visit the library, find a good book to read?”

Richard tilted his head, gaze unwavering. “Yes… that sounds lovely.”

Harry nodded, taking his arm and guiding him down the stone path, eager to exit this dead, forgotten landscape. They exited a few moments later, crossing the hall and entering the vaulted room next door.

The library contained nothing but empty bookcases and a plush chair Harry dragged to the window. Richard sat without comment or complaint, eyes fastened to the street beyond. The same spot Harry had imagined his midnight voyeur…

He rubbed his eyes in exhaustion, backing away slowly as he waited for the man to burst into movement. But Richard remained hypnotized by the neighborhood. Harry hoped the distraction would remain long enough to deal with the impending storm in the parlor. He finally turned away, exhaling with relief, only to stiffen in apprehension.

Ron stood in the doorway, watching them with clenched fists. Harry set his shoulder back, approaching calmly, careful not to draw Richard’s notice. Ron opened his mouth to speak but Harry shook his head, signaling silence as he stepped out of the bright space and into the hallway, softly closing the door.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Ron hissed the moment the barrier clicked shut.

Harry turned to face him, a wave of exhaustion crashing overhead, washing clean any excuse he might have made.

“I’m sorry. I was trying to…” Harry shook his head, unsure what he meant to say, what could possibly fix this mess of his own making. “You’re right. I’m not a good friend. Not anymore.” He was amazed how easily the words came, the simple truth lingering behind his tongue all this time. “I think I forgot how to be. I’m so sorry, Ron. I shouldn’t have said those things yesterday. I was being selfish.”

The silence stretched endlessly, measured only by Harry’s thundering heart and the distant echo of the grandfather clock.

Ron shifted on his feet, glancing away. “You were focusing on Gin. I can’t fault you for that.”

“I was an asshole about it.”

“Yeah, you were.” A beat. “But I’ve dealt with worse.”

Harry smirked, eyeing his friend closely. “You forgive me then?”

“Not yet.” Ron’s eyes narrowed with mock scorn, lifting once more. “But I’m considering it.”

Harry fought back a grin, turning for the stretch of hall and starting forward. “Well, you’ll have plenty of time to mull it over at the asylum, after your friend has us carted off in the paddywagon.”

Ron fell into step beside him. “She isn’t my friend.”

"No? Just captain of your fan club?"

Ron rolled his eyes. “I’m only suffering her company because she’s as determined to find Lavender as I am.”

Harry’s expression sobered. “We’ll find her, Ron.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder, a gesture of solidarity. “We’ll find them both.”

* * *

Hermione entered the lobby in a whirlwind, shoulders tightly drawn as she came face-to-face with the bustling Sunday crowd. She started forward, pausing as a voice called out from the front desk.

“Good morning, Hermione!”

Hermione spun, pulse fluttering. “Penelope.” She searched the young woman’s face, looking for some sign of injury or trauma, any trace of Riddle left behind. “Good morning.” Sensing nothing gravely amiss she edged closer. “Are you alright?”

Penelope smiled. “Yes, I’m quite well.” And then tilted her head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Hermione gripped the edge of the desk. “I’m… just not used to seeing you here on the weekend.”

The young woman laughed, nodding. “I’m picking up extra hours.”

Hermione forced a smile, cringing with the effort. But her acting skills were clearly subpar for Penelope blinked, expression wary. “Are _you_ alright?”

Hermione stretched her grin wider, certain she looked insane. “I’m great.” And swayed in place, feeling light-headed as she spoke the words aloud.

Alrighty, time for a change of subject.

“Have you seen Draco this morning?”

“No,” Penelope replied, folding her hands atop her lap. “He doesn’t usually come in on the weekend unless there’s an exhibit or event.”

Hermione tapped her fingers along the counter. “I thought as much.” She smothered a sigh of disappointment. “Have you seen Anthony?”

“He arrived a couple hours ago. I’m not sure where he is but I can have him called—”

“No need,” Hermione pushed back from the desk. “I’ll find him. Thank you, Penelope.”

“Of course.”

She started across the pale marble, carefully sidestepping visitors as she went, afraid of coming into direct contact with anyone. No matter which direction she forced her thoughts she couldn’t dispel her rising sense of dread, defenses at the ready, an iron wall between her and the outside world. Her stomach twisted, snippets of the dream replaying in her mind on an endless loop the entire morning.

_Maybe I should have told Harry..._

Her hand tensed atop her bag.

_He’d insist on barricading me inside Grimmauld. I’d be crawling the walls and in no less danger than I am now._

She maneuvered around a standing advert for the upcoming Amenemhat exhibit.

_Besides, I’m clearly capable of defending myself against the infected. Harry’s better off staying focused on Ginny. I can deal with my problems myself._

Her justifications felt as flimsy as a newspaper boat floating atop a puddle, but she was too deep in to turn back now. She changed direction, opting to take the long way around, hoping a trip through her favorite displays would settle her nerves. She adjusted her purse over her shoulder and crossed the threshold into the first room.

The model ruins of Anuradhapura. Hermione weaved through the intricately carved pillars, then past a line of guests admiring the Standard of Ur. She stepped beneath the adjoining archway, emerging in a brightly decorated space with tapestry-covered walls. The Buddist designs were always first to catch her eye, flowing reams of silk covered in detailed imagery meant to evoke peace and serenity. Their vivid coloring brought the paintings to life, the movement and flow a thing of transcendent beauty. Alas, she tore her gaze away with great reluctance and crossed into Ancient Greece.

It was one of the largest and most popular rooms of her department, each wall covered in intricate artwork chronicling the famed Titanomachy, a mythical battle raging across heaven and earth as the young Olympian Gods challenged their Titan predecessors for control of all creation. The majority of panels illustrated bloody war scenes, ending with Zeus’s castration of his father Cronus, the remaining Titans dragged by chains into the pits of the Underworld for eternal imprisonment. Zeus tossed the severed appendage into the sea, Cronus’s seed staining the water red before giving rise to Aphrodite in the final painting. The radiant Goddess rose gracefully from the lapping foam in her iconic clamshell, love and harmony born from destruction and chaos.

Hermione passed an assortment of busts on her way to the exit, pausing only to glimpse the intimidating statue of Eris herself. The notorious Goddess of Discord held her golden apple aloft, a glittering temptation to every mortal who gazed upon her likeness for centuries past. Her marble hip was cocked in a subversive gesture of rebellion, eyes narrowed, a silent dare to all. Her slitted gaze seemed to follow Hermione across the room, more alive than she had ever noticed before.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she turned the corner, free of the mischievous Goddess’s notice at last. She was about to embark across Ancient Rome when a soft whisper caught her notice.

“ _Hermione_.”

The voice seemed to come from above. She blinked in confusion, glancing upward, then all around, studying the milling patrons but spotting no eyes upon her. Static was quick to follow, filling her ears from a distance, muffled and broken.

_What on earth..._

The intercom must have been on.

Hermione turned on her heel and started for the front desk, the volume growing louder with every step. Until she reached Ancient China. The sound changed direction and she realized it wasn't coming from the entrance after all. She changed direction as well, dutifully hunting down the source and noticing with mounting unease that no one else appeared to notice the disturbance. At long last, she reached a new doorway, the static seeming to emanate from within.

Hermione paused at the threshold of Ancient Egypt, taking a stealing breath before stepping inside. The static increased tenfold, echoing off the walls and swirling around her in a powerful vortex, and yet the first thing to draw her notice was the absence of guests— an unusual anomaly for this collection, especially on the weekend.

The back half of the room was closed off by velvet rope and a crimson curtain strung from the ceiling, swaying beneath the air vent. A sign stood before the barrier, announcing the upcoming exhibit and warning visitors of construction. Hermione ventured forward, muscles rigid with brimming fear, though her curious disposition spared her mind from total hysteria. Sunlight glinted off the glass cases lining either wall, showcasing a myriad of treasures.

Nefertiti's golden bust stood atop a raised dais at the very center of the room, allowing the notorious Queen to reign over all in her midst. She tracked Hermione with glittering eyes, ever watchful, ever knowing. Never to be outdone, Cleopatra gazed down from the panoramic painting stationed above. Marc Antony kneeled before her throne, head lowered in defeat and worship. A golden asp laid across her neck, jewels gleamed in her hair and a thousand suns burned behind her eyes.

Hermione wet her lips, unable to break the Queen of the Nile’s steely gaze until nearly colliding head-first with a stone carving. She gasped, staggering back, only to meet the crumbling eyes of Hatshepsut, Egypt’s first female Pharaoh. She watched Hermione with the same unyielding intensity, setting her skin aflame.

Her heart thundered as she passed the stone effigy and moved to the curtain, where the noise was the loudest. She held out hope it was merely a forgotten radio left behind by a member of the night crew. A long shot, but her logic-hardened brain demanded she stay within the realm of reason until sanity failed her completely. She raised a trembling hand, grasping a fistful of fabric and holding her breath, standing frozen as the statues at her back, terrified of what she would find, what this moment could mean…

She pulled it aside with a quick exhale, stepping inside the enclosure. It was dark, illuminated only by a thin strip of sunlight. Plaster stones littered the marble, scaffolding lining the walls. The display was meant to look like the inside of a tomb but the layout was terribly inaccurate, a folly that would normally annoy her a great deal… but right now she couldn’t muster a care in the world. Instead, she paced slowly between loose planks and toolkits, searching for a radio. A sign. A burning beacon. _Anything_ —

All at once, the noise stopped. The silence was a vacuum, so great and absolute it terrified her more than the static itself.

Hermione pressed a hand to her mouth and stumbled back, getting wrapped in the curtain before fighting her way free, batting at the fabric as she found the blessed sunlight. She turned promptly, practically sprinting across the room, desperate to distance herself from this madness, her former sanctuary turned horror fun house.

Visitors in the next room eyed her curiously. She forced her gait to slow, willing their gazes away and reminding herself of her purpose for being here. The virus would not deter her from seeing this mission through.

Two minutes later she was heading down the steps for the sublevels, passing security with a curt nod before entering the employee offices. If Anthony was anywhere it would be here, buried beneath mountains of work even on the weekend. His dedication to the job was what first drew her notice, his love for learning prompting her to take the young man under her wing, tutoring the brilliant acolyte whenever possible.

She began down the hallway, doors on either side standing open to reveal empty workstations. Hermione made it halfway down before accepting defeat and turning to leave, the pervasive silence settling deep in her bones. She was feet away from the stairs when a soft thump sounded from the other end of the corridor.

She blinked, glancing back. “Hello?”

The light in the Archive room was on.

“Anthony?”

Silence.

Hermione started forward, hands trembling as she stopped in the doorway. The room was empty. She held her breath, reaching for the light switch—

And caught sight of the folder at the center of the table, a closed notebook at its side. Her translations. Everything just as she’d left it after Draco forced her to depart early.

She stared at the items for a long moment, the air pressure shifting, turning dense, and crept closer, drawn forth by an invisible thread at her center. She stopped at the edge of the table, grabbing her journal and flipping through the pages, searching searching searching—

Her eyes widened as she found the entry.

_Thousands gathered in the city center to hear their Queen speak. Neferitatjenen stood atop a golden altar, skin awash in radiant light that could be seen for miles across the desert, as dazzling as the midday sun..._

_annot. Egyptian royalty often decorated their bodies with khol, henna and fragrant oils, the latter most likely accounting for the Queen’s god-like appearance..._

Hermione stared at the page so hard the letters rearranged themselves, words turning to gibberish.

_Oh my god._

She flipped to the next page.

_… her voice was known to echo down the Nile, reaching soldiers stationed for miles along the riverbank, blessing them with sacred spells to bestow supernatural strength and unparalleled bravery..._

_… could communicate with her subjects through their dreams..._

Hermione shut the notebook with a snap, dropping it to the table and staggering across the aisle, catching herself against the doorway and fleeing into the hall without a backward glance. She made it halfway down the hall when it hit her like a freight train.

The scent.

She drew to a stop, rocking back on her heels and glancing in either direction, senses overcome, thoughts rapidly scattering. Fear and confusion fell by the wayside, nothing mattered but hunting down the source, as vital as drawing her next breath.

She began climbing the steps, trying to place the scent in her mind as she eyed the air vents along the ceiling. Surely the fragrance was being pumped into the museum like a toxic perfume cloud...

_Unless I’m imagining it. Just like the static._

Auditory hallucinations, phantom odors, a complex kind of delirium. She'd expected to lose her mind someday, it was in her genetic make-up after all, but never like this. Hermione was almost to the top of the stairs, so focused on her newest mission she failed to notice the figure heading in the opposite direction, shouting her name.

“Hermione!”

She jolted, turning to face the man beside her, clutching the railing at her back to remain upright. “Anthony.” Her muscles coiled tight. “Do you smell that?”

He blinked, glancing to the landing and back, expression awash in bemusement. “Smell...” He peered at the steps beneath their feet. “Custodial came through last night, perhaps they were a bit overzealous with the ammonia.”

She opened and closed her mouth. “No, it smells like…” Her mind spun for the right word, then settled upon the simple truth. “Food.”

Her heart thrummed with the realization.

He raised a brow. “Maybe they’re cooking in the breakroom?”

Even he sounded unconvinced. She wet her lips, glancing to the upper level beyond her control. “Perhaps.”

Anthony tilted his head, considering her carefully. "Are you alright, Hermione?"

_Are you alright, Hermione? Are you alright are you alright are you alright..._

Always the same question, over and over and over. She was so _tired_ of hearing that question.

“I’m quite fine.” She gathered the remnants of her sanity and straightened. “As fate would have it, I was looking for you.”

He stood at alert. “Do you need help with the Egyptian texts?”

She fought back a cringe, unsettled by the reminder. The cursed texts, a dark outline of her fate.

“No, I’ve nearly finished translating them.”

He deflated, eyes casting down. Guilt seized her.

“But I’ll need your help getting the exhibit in order, there’s so much to do still,” she added.

Anthony smiled and bounced in place, eager as a schoolboy. "I'm happy to assist however you need."

She smiled in turn, his boyish enthusiasm contagious. “There _is_ something you can help me with actually... I need Draco’s home address.” She wet her lips, leaning in. “To speak with him about something pertinent to the upcoming exhibit.” She knew Anthony didn’t require an explanation but felt inclined to give it, adding depth to her subversion.

“Oh…” He blinked, visibly processing the request. “Yes, I can pull it from the employee registry, assuming he’s updated his file.”

Hermione nodded, hoping that was the case. She knew the location of the Manor, but the heir to the Malfoy fortune had moved out years ago. She had Draco’s phone number but didn’t feel comfortable discussing this particular matter over the party line, nor did she put it past the stubborn man to hang up the moment she breached the taboo topic aloud.

No, better to corner him in person, ensuring she received the information she needed before the day’s end. Time was of the essence. For everyone.

“I can pull it from the registry,” she said. “I was just curious if you knew it off the top of your head.”

“Please, allow me. The back office is closed today, I can borrow the keys from Penelope.”

She sighed, grateful for the offer. Anything to avoid another painfully awkward exchange with the young woman at the front desk.

Besides… Hermione still had to search out the source of the elusive scent.

“Thank you, Anthony, I appreciate it.”

He flushed, nodding quickly and stepping higher on the staircase. “I’ll meet you in the lobby in a few minutes.”

She gripped the brass railing until she was certain it would dent beneath her palm. “Sounds good.”

He started up, only to pause a moment later, glancing back with a strange expression.

She paused as well, waiting.

“I… feel like there’s something I meant to tell you…” he trailed off, eyes clouding. “But I can’t remember what it is.”

She offered a smile, though the sudden change to his cheerful countenance was unsettling. “Happens to me quite often.”

He blinked, gaze brightening in the next beat. “I suppose if I can’t remember it wasn’t that important to begin with.” Her heart skipped at the words. He shook his head with a laugh. “Anyways, I’ll see you upstairs.”

He resumed his path forward. She waited until he crossed the landing and rounded the corner before darting up herself, heels clicking across the marble as she reached the first level, determined to find the source of this budding madness.

She slowed in the main hall, glancing around the sea of patrons for any hint of what it could be, thinking perhaps a lunch cart was stationed outside. But she spotted no food in their hands, no crowd outside the doors.

_Could it truly be in my mind?_

She continued towards the heart of the museum, feet carried by instinct, the scent growing stronger with every step. Her stomach clenched tight, whether by hunger or fear she wasn’t certain or particularly keen to know. And then a mighty scent wave struck her, overpowering her senses, as though she were suddenly standing in a cloud of it.

She spun in a tight circle, dazed, lost, _possessed_ —

Her eyes fixed upon a little girl not ten feet away, straightening a pink hair barrett as she exited the restroom, the white door swinging shut behind her.

Hermione swallowed thickly, mouth watering as she started forward in a trance. Her vision tunneled upon the door, pushing it wide with a steady hand, stepping into the brightly lit space and swaying in place, the scent saturating her every pore. She tipped back with the force of it, leaning into the wall as fire consumed her throat, reminding her of the night she inhaled the ashes. Clawing, gasping...

Movement drew her focus, sight hazed by tears. A young woman stood before the row of pedestal sinks, a blurry silhouette. Hermione blinked rapidly, gaze clearing, sharpening, until the fluorescent lights became blinding, their electrical hum radiating through her bones, twisting her ribs. She raised a hand, blocking out the glare until she was able to see the stranger quite clearly.

The woman’s head was tipped back, a handkerchief pressed to her nose. She glanced over her shoulder and blushed.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t hear you come in,” she offered by way of greeting, lowering the fabric.

Hermione dropped her hand, breath trapped in her lungs, suffocating her from the inside. The square was soaked through with red. The scent assaulted her in a fresh onslaught, muddling her thoughts as she gazed upon the blood stain with single-minded focus.

“I just hate these things, sneaking up at the worst possible times.” The woman laughed lightly, dabbing her nose. “Especially in the fall, all the dry air I suppose.”

Hermione's entire body pulsated in time to her heart. A steady, melodic beat. A battle drum. The start of a hunt.

She wasn't aware she'd pushed away from the wall, that her feet traveled steadily forward across the tightly packed tile, closer closer closer—

“There’s no need to worry, I get these all the time.”

The woman’s smile fell as Hermione continued her approach. She shifted back, spine pressing the lip of the sink, alarm taking root in her gaze. Hermione was upon her now, lifting her hand—

The door swung open.

An elderly woman wielding a walking cane stepped inside. Hermione balked, awoken violently from her daze, staggering back with horror in her eyes. The young woman balled the handkerchief in her fist, a thin trail of blood marring her upper lip as she watched Hermione with open apprehension.

Hermione glanced away sharply, scrambling for an apology but her throat was clenched too tightly to force the words free. She didn’t trust herself to linger in the cramped space a moment longer. She spun on her heel and ran to the exit, pulling the handle with such force the door struck the opposite wall with a bang, drawing the attention of nearby guests. Hermione blushed, tilting her face down as she navigated the corridor, struggling to keep her steps measured.

_Stay calm. Just get out of here._

She cut a straight path through the lobby, escape just within reach. Her pace quickened, pulse pounding in her temples, her wrists, her ankles. She pressed a hand to her middle, stomach aflame, as though she’d swallowed acid—

“Hermione!”

She whirled around.

_Fuck! What now?_

Anthony stepped forward, lifting a piece of folded paper with a smile. Penelope watched them from the corner of her eye, pretending to fill out paperwork.

“The address,” he said.

_Address? What address?_

Realization smacked her upside the head, prompting her forward. “Oh, right.” She couldn’t force another smile. “Thank you, Anthony.”

He extended the offering, brow raised. She braced for the question. Always the same question.

_Are you alright, Hermione?_

But he surprised her when another emotion altogether twisted his youthful features.

Fear.

His fingers tensed upon the paper, holding it tight in his grip, refusing to release it to her possession.

“Anthony?” She leaned forward, casting her voice low. “What’s wrong?”

His throat bobbed, eyes gleaming bright. “Hermione…”

“Yes?”

He blinked, swaying in place, rigid as a signpost. And then, just as suddenly as it came, the look passed.

He shook his head, dropping his hand. “Sorry, I…”

She reached out, placing a hand to his arm. He stiffened beneath her touch.

“I forgot it again.” His smile was as brutally forced as hers. “I’m sure it will come to me as soon as you leave.”

She searched his face. “That’s usually the case. Luckily, I’ll be back tomorrow, you can tell me then.”

He lifted the paper once more. “Here you go.”

She released his arm, accepting the address. “Thank you again.”

She wanted to ask more but suspected pressing the matter would only make it worse. Penelope watched them openly, papers discarded at her side. Hermione swallowed lightly, backing away and turning on her heel, starting for the exit.

“Be careful, Hermione.”

Her heartbeat echoed in her ears, off the ceiling. She turned slowly. “What?”

Anthony laughed, gesturing to the wall of glass. “There’s construction at 5th and 83rd.”

Hermione blinked.

Construction.

Holy shit.

_This day._

“See you tomorrow,” she uttered, mind beyond reason as she turned once more, address clutched tightly in hand. She tried to remember how to put one foot in front of the other, the simple task of walking a complex concept to her now.

The exit was only feet away. Freedom so close she could taste it…

The door opened. A man entered.

Hermione stopped in her tracks, rocking back on her heels.

_For fuck’s sake._

The new entrant glanced around the crowded lobby as he pulled the cashmere scarf from his neck. She held her breath, willing herself to turn invisible, desperate to channel a new superpower here and now.

Alas, his silver gaze alighted upon her, narrowing at once.

“Ms. Granger.” Disdain laced every syllable of her name.

She straightened, lifting her chin. “Mr. Malfoy.”

He arched a pale brow, staring her down his nose. “Leaving already? I do hope you’ll be able to work within the timeframe the board has set. We cannot adjust the date of the exhibit.”

She fought to suppress a scowl. “I’ll make it work. I always do.”

His eyes glinted like daggers, roaming her figure from top to bottom. “You appear ill.”

Hermione bristled.

Lucius smiled, teeth a brilliant white. “Perhaps we should call in McLaggen to assist.”

The blood drained from her head in a powerful rush, pooling at her feet and locking her heels in place.

“McLaggen is in New York?” She whispered.

“Arrived home on Friday,” he announced with exuberance, basking in her discomfort. “He reached out to me this morning, offering his services.”

She squared her shoulders, grinding her teeth. “I’m perfectly capable of completing the work myself.”

His amusement blew away like dried leaves.

“We’ll see.” Darkness bled across his features. “I’ll be monitoring your progress very closely, Ms. Granger. This exhibit will bring a great deal of publicity and revenue to the museum. The board is greatly vested in its success.”

“Then please do tell them I have it under control.” She rested a hand atop her purse, smiling sweetly. “Good day, Sir.”

She marched past, satisfied her parting words conveyed the true message in her heart.

_Piss off._

She wrenched the door wide, his glare following her over the threshold and down the stairs until she stepped onto the sidewalk with a sigh of exhaustion, half-convinced she was still trapped inside the building, her escape only an illusion, a sweet fantasy to be ripped away the moment she opened her eyes.

But as she put half a block between herself and the Met she dared to unclench her fist, opening the slip of paper and reading the address scrawled in looping cursive. Her stomach twisted anew, but not with the visceral hunger of before. No, now she was fueled with determination, a driving obsession to see today’s mission through.

She would help Harry with his investigation. They _would_ find Ginny.

But first, she had another pit stop to make.

* * *

Bella paced slowly between the rows of evening primrose, silk robe trailing the stone at her feet, dampened by manufactured heat. She ran an idle fingertip across a bloom, its petals closed tight, the scent of honey and lemon hanging thick upon the air. Gardening shears tapped her bare thigh with every step, held loosely in hand as she turned another corner, eyes gleaming in the darkness.

A figure appeared in the doorway connecting the greenhouse to the estate, tall shadow stretched across the walkway. He tucked his hands into his pockets, watching her meander through the rows with a curious eye.

“You’re up early,” he stated, baritone trembling the leaves. “Still restless I see.”

She tilted her head back, reaching up to grasp a tendril of twisting ivy overhead. The vines spindled out, wrapping the posts and growing across the metal roof.

“There’s an electricity in the air. Keeps me awake.” She lowered her arm. “Can’t you feel it?”

He stepped over the threshold. “Afraid not.”

The tip of the sheers pricked the silk of her garters. “It’s old, very old… and calls to my blood. I can hear it whispering to me, even in my dreams.”

“It’s probably your father. He should be close to mainland by now.”

“I know my father’s call.” She slowed her steps, admiring another bloom. “This is something different. Something wild… and powerful.” The white bud rested in her palm. “Very powerful.”

He considered her words, stepping further inside the Garden. “I think you’re just anticipating his arrival, darling.”

She crushed the flower in her hand. Petals rained down, collecting at her stockinged feet. “Thank goodness I didn’t ask for your opinion on the matter.”

He stiffened, lips pressing thin.

“Don’t give me that look,” she spoke over her shoulder. “I can’t abide your glowering stare.”

He raised his chin, shoulders drawing wide. “Tell me how to help.”

“That’s more like it.” She smirked, glancing back at last. “The boys are up to something. I can feel it as surely as the current on the wind.” She began pacing closer, hips swaying with every step as she lifted the sheers, tapping the edge of the blade against her ruby painted lips. “Pay a visit to the Penthouse this evening. Keep an eye on Tommy’s pretty little lapdog.”

She stopped before her White Knight, placing a hand to the center of his chest, just beside his heart. His pupils dilated, body leaning in.

“My big brother has a secret,” she whispered, resting the shears atop his shoulder and pressing the blade to his throat. He growled with pleasure, grabbing her waist as she leaned in, tilting her head until their mouths aligned. “And I’m going to find out what it is.”

* * *

Hermione stepped over a pile of empty tin cans, carefully navigating heaps of garbage until reaching the accordion gate on the opposite end of the alley. She kicked aside a stack of rotting newspaper, banging the metal with the side of her fist and hoping desperately Theo would be in. Then she blinked, wondering if he ever left.

Her thoughts stalled as steps echoed across the metal staircase on the other side.

“Who is it?” His voice was muffled and annoyed.

She leaned in, placing a hand to the brick to steady herself. “Hermione.”

The door opened a sliver, just enough to reveal a pair of wild, shifty eyes, dark circles collected beneath.

“Are you alone?”

She raised a brow. “...yes.”

His gaze narrowed, darting to the alley as though doubting her word. Then the door slammed shut, causing her to jolt. Metal scraped, the lock sliding away before the barrier parted wide, followed by the gate.

She stepped back, taking in his appearance. Blood speckled his shirt and jaw, the skin broken at his chin and his normally pristine hair in such disarray it rivaled Harry’s.

“Theo… is everything alright?”

He smiled widely, expression decidedly maniacal. “Never better. Please, come in.”

He stood aside, gesturing her forward. She stepped across the threshold, shoulders pulled tight as she squeezed onto the catwalk, glancing around the eerie industrial space. It appeared different somehow, another beast entirely without Harry’s comforting presence at her side. She knew Theo would never harm her, not intentionally. But she felt unsettled all the same, tension mounting as he slammed the door and jammed the lock into place.

She shook her head at her own paranoia, glancing to her purse for distraction. “Oh, before I forget, I brought you this.” She reached inside and withdrew her offerings. “Holy water and a crucifix.”

Theo turned, staring at the flask and cross with a blank expression. “How wonderfully thoughtful.”

She rolled her eyes, handing them off before crossing to the stairs. “Just be thankful it’s not garlic. Harry wanted to cover your floor with it.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Theo followed behind, steps quick and certain while Hermione clung to the handrail for dear life. “But something tells me this isn’t the main purpose of your visit.”

She emerged on the lower level, wringing her hands as she gazed upon the chaotic laboratory. “I need your help, Theo.”

He tilted his head, crossing to the nearest table and depositing the items. “Something’s happened,” he stated, propping his hip against the edge and crossing his arms.

Hermione took a steadying breath, unearthing the dark secret from the pits of her soul. “Harry didn’t want me to say anything, but I—”

Something rattled at their sides, causing her to jump a foot in the air.

Theo stepped forward. “Shit. Hold on.”

He strode across the room to a sheet covered box. She edged sideways for a better view, watching as he lifted the corner of the fabric, revealing the front panel of a cage. There was movement at the bottom.

_Mice?_

She closed the distance, peering over his shoulder, the contents coming into view—

Hermione gasped, covering her mouth with both hands and rearing back.

Four mice scrambled over each other to climb the grate, gnawing at the bars with bloodied, broken teeth, clawing desperately with mangled paws and jagged knubs, ears ripped and dangling, eyes scarred and missing, bodies torn, shredded. She shook her head, intestines squirming at the sight.

“Hm…” Theo’s contemplative hum broke through her shock like an explosion. “This cage won’t hold for much longer. Reinforced steel should do it, I’d think.”

“Theo…” He glanced up. She met his eyes in horror. “What the hell is this?”

He blinked, appearing confused for a staggering beat. “Oh, right.” He tilted his head, examining the cage and its ghastly occupants. “It seems the virus is far more unpredictable than I could have ever anticipated.”

Hermione paled. “The virus did _that_?”

He nodded, watching with clinical detachment as they continued to scramble for freedom, red eyes possessed with bloodlust.

“They’re ravenous,” he stated.

She wet her lips, mouth dry. “For blood?”

He tilted his head the other way, studying them from a new angle. “For flesh.”

Her eyes flickered up, fixed upon his profile. “What?”

“The only conclusion I’ve drawn with any certainty is the virus evolves rapidly within the host, making it nearly impossible to study on a limited scale. If there’s a pattern, I have yet to discover it.”

She swayed in place, realizing she was on a collision course with the ground only when his hands seized her, pulling her upright.

“Granger.” He examined her waxen complexion. “Perhaps a seat is in order.”

She swallowed back a sob, standing on her own even as her heart plummeted. “I have it, Theo.”

He blinked, releasing her arms at once. “How?” He didn’t bother asking for clarification, the terror in her eyes making her meaning clear enough. “The night of the attack? Were you bitten?”

“Before then.” Hermione closed her eyes, strangled by the dark memory. “The jar. I opened it.” She turned away from the cage, wiping the tears before they fell.

“The contents carried the virus,” he concluded gravely.

She nodded, opening her eyes. He held her gaze for a tortuous beat, then stepped back. “Sit. Let me take a blood sample.”

Her knees trembled as he gestured to a stool beside a rolling cart.

Needles. She _hated_ needles. But she removed her coat and purse without argument, making her way across the lab and perching gingerly on the edge of the seat. She watched his silent approach, a single question weighing heavily upon her heart.

“Am I going to become…” Her eyes drifted to the rattling cage. “Like that?”

Theo pulled on his gloves. “I don’t know.” He opened a drawer on the cart and withdrew a gleaming syringe, holding it to the light. She closed her eyes on instinct, nausea turning her stomach inside out.

He shifted beside her, voice lower, softer than moments before. “Extend your right arm. I’ll do my best to be quick about it.”

She nodded, doing as bade and focusing on her breathing. The gloves were cold on her skin, his touch firm and certain. The needle prick came without warning, for which she was grateful, seeing no need to suffer twice by worrying about the pain to come. He held her limb steady as he filled the vial, only to withdraw the metal with the same seamless skill he inserted it with.

“Give me a moment, I’ll examine it now.”

She opened her eyes, reaching for a cotton ball on the tray and pressing it to the blood welling atop her skin, relieved it carried no scent. She didn’t think she could survive another episode.

Her thoughts broke apart as Theo picked up a slide, the tink of glass drawing her gaze. She watched him transfer her blood to the plate with a dropper, every movement precise. She rose to her feet as he sat before the microscope, feeding the slide beneath the lens and leaning in.

The silence was deafening, torturous. She pressed down on the cotton swab until her arm throbbed.

At long last, Theo leaned back.

She inhaled sharply. “Well?”

A tense beat. He tilted his head, shoulder blades tightening. “I don’t know.”

She shook her head, crossing towards him quickly. “What do you mean? Do I have the virus or not?”

He pushed back from the table, rolling the chair around to face her. “You have _something_ , but I don’t recognize it.”

She stepped before the microscope and leaned down, peering into the eyepiece without bothering to ask permission. It had been many years since she’d operated such a tool, sophomore biology if memory served, but she was able to recognize the foreign invaders plaguing her cells quite clearly. Inky tendrils reached out and punctured her white blood cells, filling them with a dark poison, spreading as rapidly as a swarm of—

“Locusts,” She whispered, drawing back in a numb stupor.

Theo studied her closely. “It doesn’t match the sample I took from Potter’s attacker. Nor does it align with any of the mice, Abigail included.”

“What does that mean?”

He stood swiftly, drawing a gloved hand through his electrified hair and starting to pace. “The virus evolves between hosts. The only comparable data was found in the second set of mice.” He turned on his heel, beginning a new lap. “I introduced the virus into Abigail’s system when she was alive. Now she’s dead.” Hermione’s pulse rioted, hooked on every word. “At least for now,” he added as a passing afterthought, unphased by the insanity.

He glanced to the trembling cage. “She introduced her strain to the others as she ate them. The virus got into their system...” He wet his lips, eyes bright. “And brought them back from the dead.”

She swallowed heavily, trying to make sense of the swirling chaos. “Alright… so what does that mean for me?”

He stilled, head snapping sideways as though remembering her presence. “I haven’t the faintest clue.”

Hermione deflated. “That’s rather unhelpful.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound the least bit sorry. She slumped into the table.

“I have a theory…” he continued. “But I’ve conducted too few trials to stand by it with any conviction. Moreover, the studies I’m running are all derived from a single viral strain.”

“I speak many languages, Theo, but science clearly isn’t one of them.”

"You were infected with what appears to be a three-thousand-year-old virus. It looks different because it _is_ different. None of these trials mean anything for you.” His eyes glinted green in the pulsing light. “Your strain is closer to the original source, if not the very first. It will be less diluted, less evolved. Pure.” He lifted his chin, crossing his arms. “Which also means… it may hold the key to a cure.”

Her heart pounded through her chest, bruising her ribs.

“Do you still have the jar?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, mind reeling with renewed hope.

“Bring it to me, as soon as you can.”

She stepped away from the table, buzzing with excitement. “I’ll have to ask Harry where he hid it, I’ll bring it to you immediately.”

“See that you do. In the meantime, I’ll use your blood as a starting point. Do you mind sitting for another sample?”

Hermione shook her head, darting for the stool without hesitation.

“Theo?” she asked, sitting once more. “How long do you think I have?”

He reached for a fresh needle, removing the cap. She sensed the automatic response in his eyes and spoke first. “I know you don’t speak in absolutions. But if you _had_ to guess… I need to know what to expect.”

He set his jaw, resting the needle at his side. “Have you experienced any unusual symptoms?”

She blanched.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I… had an unusual burst of strength. The night of the attack.”

He tilted his head, intrigue coloring his expression.

“And…” She squirmed in place. “My skin glowed.”

His brows creased. “Glowed?”

“The ashes belonged to the heart of an Egyptian Queen,” she explained. “Going off the texts, it’s clear she was infected. The people viewed her a Goddess incarnate. Glowing skin seems to be par for the course.”

“What an exciting prospect,” he smirked. “Perhaps you’ll amass a cult following and have a sixth borough erected in your honor.”

Hermione folded her hands atop her lap. “I’m more concerned with becoming a ravenous monster who devours everyone within said borough.”

His amusement faded. “All viruses are programmed to spread. To replicate and evolve. But their hosts are never helpless.” His eyes narrowed. “And you, Hermione Granger, are far from helpless.”

Her gaze flickered up, a soft smile curving her lips. "Thank you, Theo."

He stepped back and lifted the syringe, needle glinting in the light. “In the meantime, keep me closely apprised of any new and developing symptoms.” He held her gaze captive. “Nothing can be gained by keeping secrets.”

She released a slow breath, holding her arm aloft. “Truer words were never spoken.”

Theo leaned in, plunging the syringe into her vein a second time. Hermione kept her eyes open, watching the needle invade her flesh. She didn’t flinch.

* * *

Harry took a stealing breath, dodging between pop-up merchants and milling shoppers as he traversed the Sunday market. The scent of onions and cooked meats hung heavy in the air, underlaid by body odor and flowery perfume, his skull throbbing with the noxious combination.

East Village was bedazzled with bright colors and crowded street vendors, its Russian, Ukranian and Jewish influence unmistakable thanks to country flags and native text printed across colorful monikers. Restaurants and shops lined either end of the sidewalk, windows glowing and patios jam-packed with the weekend lunch crowd.

A man selling skinned fowl from a butcher stand waved a dead chicken in Harry’s face. He ducked out of the way, narrowly avoiding a beak to the eye, only to collide with a cobbler station, the smell of leather stain clearing his airway with a chemical burn. He backed away carefully, pausing to allow a group of children to run past, the boy at the back of the procession wielding a baguette like a sword.

The neighboring stand overflowed with baubles and trinkets, the next with hats, another with jarred honey and jams. Harry’s heart galloped with joy as the exit revealed itself, the final two stands of the roadside market just ahead. But before he could emerge from the chaos an elderly woman entered, pushing a rolling cart and blocking his path.

He stood aside to allow her room to pass, unable to tear his gaze from her hunched form. Her head was shrouded in a black scarf, her cart brimmed with rotting fruit and swarming flies. She peered up, one eye clouded with cataracts, the other startling bright, both narrowing with malice as they roamed Harry’s figure from top to bottom, as though sensing the taint upon his very skin. He pressed against the stand at his back, desperate to escape her astute inspection. She continued to trudge past, the wheel of her cart squeaking loudly, her haunting gaze emblazoned on his mind even after she looked away.

He breathed deeply, releasing the table and darting into the street, then onto the curb and between the alleys, crossing steadily to the pawnshop on the corner. He opened the heavy door and slipped inside, grateful to see the store was bereft of patrons, allowing him a brief and blessed reprieve. The shop itself was bursting at the seams with junk, though he supposed it may all be considered another man’s treasure. However, after living as a nomad for so long Harry couldn’t bear to look upon the clutter for more than a few seconds.

He crossed between the aisles, stopping before a glass counter at the wall, filled with rows of gleaming bracelets and watches, aged coins and crystal figurines, all perched atop a velvet throw. A silver bell sat atop the glass, a handwritten note beside it. Ring for Service. Harry did just that, glancing up as a noise sounded beyond the plastic curtain behind the register.

It was then Harry saw the second sign, mounted high on the wall for everyone to see.

**thieves shot on sight**

The curtain parted, a short and portly man emerging from between the folds. He pulled out a napkin tucked into his collar and wiped his hands, still chewing.

“How can I help you, kid?” He asked around his mouthful.

“I’m looking for a girl.”

“Ain’t we all.”

Harry reached into his vest slowly, eyes fixed to the six-shot pistol strapped to the man’s rotund hip. “A specific girl.”

He withdrew the black and white image from the inner lining, holding it aloft. Ginny’s senior photograph, the only picture her parents could rummage of their daughter sitting still and facing the camera. The image was five-years dated, but she looked largely the same, save for the length of her hair.

“You recognize her? She’ll have a bob now.”

The man wiped his hands once more, swallowing his food and taking the photograph, holding it close to his face.

“She yours?”

Harry tensed. “A friend.” He forced his stance to relax. “And missing.”

The man nodded. “Lots of that going around.”

Harry leaned in, bracing the edge of the counter. “Anyone local?”

“Local kids go missing all the time.” The shop owner shrugged, setting the photo on the glass. “Most get written off as runaways. Most of ‘em are.”

“And the others?”

“Gone all the same.” He slid the image across the counter. “Sorry, kid. I ain’t seen her.”

Harry sighed, carefully retaking the paper. “Do you have a notice board?”

The man nodded, tipping his chin towards the entrance. “On the wall behind the door. Mostly concerts and events.”

“Mind if I hang her flyer?”

“You got flyers?” He raised a bushy brow. “Big spender. Don’t suppose you want to spread some of that wealth my way?”

Harry grit his teeth, reaching for his wallet. “What’ll it cost me?”

The man tipped his head, watching as Harry withdraw the bundle of leather before crossing his arms over front. “Nothing. Go ahead, hang it.”

Harry blinked, freezing in place as he glanced up.

“I hope you find her,” the owner added.

Harry nodded, tucking his wallet back into his pocket. “Me, too. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” The man stepped away from the counter. “Now, if you don't mind, I’m going to finish my lunch.”

Harry smirked. “Don’t let me keep you.”

The owner waved his hand in dismissal and farewell, disappearing through the curtain once more. Harry turned on his heel and started for the door, opening his bag and withdrawing one of the few papers he had left. Creating lithograph copies had been a time-consuming and costly endeavor, at least according to Ron. The Weasleys had scraped together all their spare dimes to buy the stack. The copies were almost out, Harry intended to purchase more this week.

He stopped before the bulletin board, removing a tac from a business card for a local tailor and pinned Ginny’s image to the very center of the collage. He settled back, meeting the gaze in the photo, pain alighting in his shoulder. He rubbed the muscle, fingertips pressing the burning skin, pain spreading up and around to his chest. Her face seemed to come to life, mere paper unable to contain the vibrant life force of Ginevra Weasley. A two-dimensional image could never hope to capture her vibrancy, her sheer force of nature.

The rest of the shop faded to smoke, his peripheral melting away, nothing existing beyond her wild grin, her piercing eyes. Unrestrained laughter echoed in his head, drowning out the bustling market beyond the door, drowning out his thundering heartbeat...

A knock sounded, jolting him awake.

Harry blinked into the shadows of his childhood bedroom, gazing around in confusion only to spot the shadow cast across the wall, a dark silhouette illuminated by moonlight. He pushed up, leaning against his headboard and turning to the window.

Ginny smiled from the other side of the glass, waving excitedly.

Harry shook his head in amusement, throwing his covers aside and stumbling from the bed, steps clumsy with sleep. He fumbled with the lock before sliding the pane up.

“Gin? What are you doing here?”

“What do you think? It’s your birthday!”

He glanced to the metal clock on his bedside table, squinting to read the narrow hands. “Not for another hour.”

“Good. I’ll be the first to wish you a happy birthday.” She backed away, stepping through the shrubs. “Come on.”

He raised a brow, eyeing her speculatively. She merely laughed, tossing her fiery hair. “Hurry up or you’ll miss it!”

Harry shook his head and ran to the closet, grabbing his trainers off a pile of dirty clothes before dashing to the window. He climbed over the ledge in his faded t-shirt and sleep pants, emerging in humid summer heat as he landed in the mulch, jumping the bushes and chasing her across the overgrown lawn. He was supposed to mow the grass the weekend prior but had procrastinated, as always, opting to play football in the park all day instead. His mom was going to kill him if he didn’t get to it soon.

Ginny’s tinkling laughter drew him into the street. She stopped beside her shiny green bike, her most treasured possession, and threw a leg over the seat, gripping the worn handles.

“Mine’s in the garage,” Harry said, standing on the curb. “My parents will hear if I open it.”

“Then hop on the back, Potter.” She winked, smile glittering in the street light.

He leaped forward without hesitation, stepping onto the spoke pegs and gripping her shoulders tight as she started forward. Her hair chased them in a blazing trail as she pedaled like a bat out of hell, navigating between parked cars and hydrants and trees, onto the sidewalk, around the corner and up the hill, legs pumping furiously as they wove through the shadowy streets of Brooklyn. They laughed wildly, howling at the moon and shouting at brake lights, barrelling through stop signs without pause or worry.

She made a tight turn onto Parkside, their destination obvious. A thrill seized him.

“What are we doing here?” He shouted down to her.

“You’ll see!”

She stopped at last, tires spitting gravel as they parked on the parade ground, the sprawling green of Prospect Park a shiny beacon on the other side of the road. Harry hopped down, grin splitting his face in half as he spotted a familiar sight at the chain link fence.

“Ron?”

His friend turned, tossing his arms up. “Bout time! Fuckin hell!” He waved them over. “Hurry! The guard will be back any minute!”

Harry glanced at Ginny as she dismounted. “What are—”

"Trust me." She reached forward and took his hand, pulling him onto the blacktop. Harry followed without reservation because he trusted her absolutely.

They took a running start for the fence, jumping high and scaling the gate with an agile combination of teenage speed and love for misdemeanor crime. The trio landed in the grass. Harry followed the brother and sister team across the field and into the trees and bushes, arms held wide and wind in their hair as they laughed wildly into the night.

Excitement squeezed his lungs in a vice as he spotted two more figures in the clearing ahead, rummaging through a cardboard box.

Fred glanced up at the approaching stampede. “The esteemed guest of honor arrives!”

George followed suit. “I thought we were shouting surprise?”

"Not till _after_ he sees his present,” Fred replied.

George smirked. “Ah, that’s right.”

Ginny rolled her eyes, reaching the twins first despite being the shortest among them. “Don't spoil it, idiots!”

Harry laughed, staggering to a halt beside her, Ron at his heels. “What’s going on? Why are we here?”

"Well, you see, Harry..." George rose to his feet, placing a hand behind his back to conceal the item contained within and slinging his free arm around Harry's neck. "We wanted to wish you a _very_ special happy birthday… Weasley style.”

Fred flanked him from the other side, clearly hiding something behind his lanky frame as well. Harry’s blood pressure surged, dread and excitement gripping him tight as Ron and Ginny kneeled before the box and fought over its contents.

“Fifteen is such a milestone in a young man’s life,” Fred stated, throwing his arm over Harry’s shoulders.

George nodded, expression twisted into a grim impersonation of maturity. "We should know, wise elders that we are."

“So we put our rather sizable brains together and devised the _perfect_ way to commemorate this joyous occasion.”

“The most _spectacular_ present a young man could hope to receive.”

Harry lifted a brow, glancing between them. “How illegal is it?”

“Very, but that’s beside the point.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Ginny shouted, sitting back on her haunches and throwing up her hands. “Just show him already, you crooning twats!”

George whistled low. “Hark, are those dulcet tones of our sweet baby sister I hear or the ramblings of a drunken sailor?”

“She’s right, get on with it!” Ron snapped, elbow deep in the box.

The twins sighed in unison.

“Not an ounce of showmanship between them,” Fred lamented.

“It’s not their fault.” George led Harry forward. “We used up all the looks, brains and humor in the womb, they were left with only scraps.”

Ginny flipped them the bird.

“Alright,” Harry said with a laugh. “I give, what the hell is it?”

The Weasley clan grinned, their family resemblance on full display in the bright moonlight.

“Harry Potter,” Fred announced, pulling his hand from behind his back. “Get ready for the best birthday of your young, delinquent life.”

George followed suit, revealing his hidden treasure to Harry’s gaze at last. Ginny and Ron stood, arms overflowing with bounty.

Harry wet his lips, eyes gleaming bright, reflecting the assortment of colorful contraband on display.

“Holy fuck.”

.   .   .

Harry rested the stick against the side of the box and slowly drew his hands away. It balanced, the final piece in place, nestled beside its many companions.

“Are you sure we should do it this way?” Ron asked from the opposite side. “Isn’t it better to do them separately?”

“We already explained it to you!” His sister hissed, inserting her last tube inside the holder. “The cops will show up the moment it starts, the only way to get our money’s worth is to do it all at once. Besides...” She smiled with malevolent delight, withdrawing a lighter from her back pocket and flicking the lid, flames dancing in her blue eyes. “This is a fuck ton more exciting.”

“Our sister, the next Lord Byron.” George stood from his pile.

Harry reached for his borrowed lighter, flicking it open and sparking the wheel. “Ready?” He asked, flame dancing in the warm breeze.

They all nodded with manic excitement.

“Alright, kiddos,” Fred announced, the last to ignite his flame. “On the count of three…”

He wet his lips, shadows dancing across his face.

“One.”

Harry lowered his lighter.

“Two.”

And held his breath, adrenaline surging.

“Three!”

They all lit the end of their fuses.

“Run!” Ron shouted, springing to his feet.

They didn’t need to be told twice, stumbling away from the pile and sprinting across the field, screaming and laughing and kicking up grass the entire way.

Ginny tripped over a patch of crabgrass, losing her footing. Harry spun on his heal and caught her before she hit the ground, pulling her into his side with a breathless laugh before resuming their frantic dash to the treeline. They skidded across the gravel trail and took shelter behind a wooden bench, ducking low and gazing through the slats. The twins dove behind a cluster of bushes while Ron perched behind a massive oak tree.

They all held their breath in collective silence, eyes wide, fixed ahead, no one daring to blink. The fuses continued to sizzle and spark, almost to their connector bases. The smell of gunpowder and sulfur was thick on the air, clouding his senses as the first round of fireworks detonated.

Roman candles and bottle rockets, a modest start. But within seconds the aerial explosives fired to life, shaking the earth and rattling every bone in Harry’s body.

The night turned to day before his eyes, heaven illuminated in all its majestic glory by bursting brocades and screaming comets and gleaming pearls, sparkling confetti and blooming Dahlias replacing the stars with red and gold, blue and green, violet and silver, an endless patchwork of colors spilling across the sky. The noise was deafening, the lights blinding. An utter masterpiece.

He was so caught up in the show he forgot to remove his arm from around Ginny's waist, gripping her tighter with every earth-shattering tremor. And while Harry’s gaze remained fixed above, face awash in sparkling light, Ginny’s eyes remained fixed on Harry.

The Catherine Wheel burst to life in the grand finale. The sky bled crimson, sparks cascading in every direction in a brilliant show of light and sound. A line of squad cars screeched around the corner, flashing lights and blaring sirens swallowed whole by the smoke-hazed street.

Harry turned his head, watching the twins gesture wildly before sprinting away. Ron followed their lead, darting out from behind his tree and heading for the gate. Harry’s emerald gaze latched onto Ginny. Her face glowed red in the hellish blaze, a fallen angel staring up at him with such raw intensity his thoughts instantly scattered.

He was too young to understand the look in her eyes, the hand clutching his shirt, centered over his heart. He leaned in, kissing her cheek in silent thank you before taking her hand and pulling her up, fingers interlaced as they sprinted across the field. The Wheel fizzled out, filling their eyes and lungs with black smoke. They coughed and laughed and ran, police hot on their heels and hands tightly clutched until they finally reached Ginny's shiny green bicycle.

Harry inhaled sharply, pulling from the memory in a nauseating rush. He scrubbed a hand over his face, stomach filled with jagged rocks, eyes trapped by her unrelenting stare. And in the musty solitude of the pawn shop, Harry placed a hand to the wall and leaned in, pressing his face an inch from her own and whispering low, willing the image to come to life one more time, if only to answer his burning question at last.

“Where the hell are you, Gin?”

* * *

The room was dark. Nearly black. Void of light but filled with sound.

A floorboard creaked as Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata filtered through the hallway. Slow and melodic, beautiful and dark, every note perfectly timed, perfectly constructed by a skilled hand.

Wind whistled over the sloping rooftop, branches scratching at the glass. The floorboards creaked once more.

The piano cut off abruptly, followed by the low murmur of a male voice. Then a loud bang, quick footsteps pounding up the steps, down the corridor…

The slamming door echoed like the crack of a whip, its tremor seeping through the wall, rattling the picture frames, the sconces, the headboard.

The clock tick tick ticked, washed away by a strangled sob.

And in the blackness of the room, Ginny Weasley opened her eyes.


	8. A Simple Declaration

_“How do I know you’ll keep your word?” asked Coraline._  
_“I swear it,” said the other mother. “I swear it on my own mother's grave.”_  
_“Does she have a grave?” asked Coraline._  
_“Oh yes,” said the other mother. “I put her in there myself. And when I found her trying to crawl out, I put her back.”_  
~ Neil Gaiman, Coraline  
.   .   .

Ginny gazed into the darkness, vision hazed by sleep. She rubbed her eyes, rolling onto her back and peering at the ceiling.

A beat. Then two.

She stretched, bracing her hands flat to the headboard and arching high off the mattress, muscles pulled taut. She settled with a satisfying exhale, kicking the covers away and swinging her legs over the edge of the four-poster bed, rising swiftly. Silk danced across her knees as she crossed the oriental rug to the black-out curtains on the wall. She pulled the heavy fabric aside, only to sigh with disappointment, pressing a palm to the metal blind.

 _Damn_.

Then she heard it. A muffled sob.

Her eyes snapped to the side, focused on the damask wallpaper. The crying continued, decidedly delicate and acutely miserable. Ginny drew away from the window, striding for the door— only to glance down, gazing at her nightdress.

“Shit.”

She changed direction, throwing open the gilded doors of her walk-in closet and stepping into the center aisle. She began rummaging through velvet-lined hangers, pushing aside silk and lace and satin until her fingers collided with a familiar sensation.

Ginny tugged the robe free, holding it aloft with a covetous grin. Red dragons chased each other across black silk, roaring flames expertly stitched into the gleaming fabric. She slid her arms into the bell-sleeves, tying the sash as she crossed the room and opened her door, glancing either way down the empty hall before stepping out and crossing to the bedroom beside her own. The door was shut. She pressed a hand to the carved wood, reaching for the brass handle with the other.

Locked.

Ginny sighed, shaking her head and stepping away.

A floorboard creaked downstairs.

She scowled, setting her jaw and marching for the staircase, silk robe trailing like a billowing cape, crimson dragons breathing flames with every step. She took the stairs in a blinding rush, emerging inside the marble entry, barely sparing her surroundings a glance before passing beneath a Venetian archway and navigating the lavishly decorated hallways with single-minded determination, sidestepping statues and sculptures, decorative vases and ornate cabinets, rounding the corner into the parlor and grinding to a halt.

She stood beneath the doorway, eyes latching to the gleaming grand piano, the room’s magnificent centerpiece, before tracking movement against the wall. She straightened, scowling at his broad back and flippant disregard as he thumbed through a selection of records, puffing steadily at the end of a cigar. Bittersweet smoke drifted through the air in wispy tendrils, burning her nostrils and throat. She fumed in silence, arms crossed tightly as she watched him peruse the extensive music collection.

His shoulders stiffened at long last, movements stilling. “ _What_?” He snapped, still facing away.

“What did you do?”

His jaw tensed, hand tightening on the cigar. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“Why is she crying?”

A bitter laugh. “How should I know? Probably saw her own shadow.”

Ginny inhaled sharply, taking in smoke as he made his selection, sliding the record from its case and setting it atop the phonograph. He lowered the needle. The room filled with crackling static, a beat of silence, and then smooth saxophone emanated from the speaker horn, offset by deep bass. He tipped his head back, shoulders lowering in twin slopes as blue-tinged smoke billowed past his lips, dissipating in an opaque cloud.

“I can’t stand the depressing shit she insists on playing all hours of the day,” he said, rolling the cigar between tattooed fingers. “I’m stuck babysitting you lot, I won’t be forced to listen to the soundtrack of my own misery.”

The tempo quickened, drums and trumpet layering the melody. Ginny shook her head. “You’re an asshole.”

He stiffened, head snapping round. Red flooded his dark blue gaze, irises turning violet. “Bide your tongue, girl, before I rip it from your mouth.”

She rolled her eyes. “I grew up with six older brothers, you’ll have to do a lot better than that.”

He turned to face her fully, muscles coiled, ready to spring. “You won’t be locked away forever, Red.” Smoke danced around his head in a sinister halo. “The moment you step foot outside these walls, I’m going to make good on every last one of my promises.”

Ginny smirked, tilting her head in contemplation. “The voice isn’t half bad, but you should really keep practicing your faces in the mirror. Right now you just look constipated.” She winked, taking a step for the hallway. “Don’t worry, you’ll get there.”

She turned on his seething grimace.

“Two more days, then you’re mine!” He shouted after her.

Her laughter echoed down the hall. “Not in your life!” Her smile stretched from end to end as she heard the table upturn, music cutting off abruptly.

But her amusement disintegrated as she resumed her path upstairs, passing a maid heading down, arms brimming with fresh linens. Ginny pushed away from the railing, lifting her hands.

“Here, let me help you—”

“No, Mistress!” The girl reared back, eyes wide over the stack in her arms. “It is my duty to serve, please do not sully yourself with such tasks.”

Ginny shook her head. “You don’t have to worry about me, Winnie. I’m not like the others.” She placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Please, don’t wait on me hand and foot.”

The maid cast her gaze to the floor, flinching away from Ginny’s touch. “As you wish, Mistress.”

Ginny sighed, hands dropping as she shifted aside, allowing the girl room to pass. “Two more days,” she muttered to herself, starting up the steps once more.

She eyed the massive portrait overseeing the landing before turning down the corridor, passing a procession of closed doors. There was faint shuffling from within, occupants woken by the commotion downstairs.

 _Asshat_.

She started to enter her bedroom, desperate for a few more hours of sleep when a soft whimper halted her tracks. She rocked in the doorway, glancing to the bedroom next door. And closed her eyes.

 _Crap_.

Ginny stepped back into the hall, crossing the runner until she stood before the closed barrier, testing the handle once more, still unable to gain entry. She inhaled slowly, steeling herself, and knocked gently.

“It’s me.”

The crying stopped at once, the interior falling deathly silent. She counted backward from ten in her mind, making it to five before a quiet shuffle sounded. The lock clicked, the barrier opened a narrow sliver.

Ginny smiled, gripping the edge of the door and pushing it wide enough to slip through, shutting it quietly at her back.

* * *

Color drained from the sky, turning it a lifeless grey, announcing the storm on the horizon. Hermione double-checked the address in her hand, peering up at the modest brownstone in confusion. Surely Anthony had written down the wrong information, for this couldn’t possibly be where the heir to the Malfoy fortune had chosen to settle after vacating his sprawling ancestral home.

She peered either way down the street, putting off the inevitable for another few seconds before starting up the steps. She read the slip of paper twice more before shaking her head and ringing the bell, holding her breath and rocking back on her heels, tension mounting. She braced for a stranger to greet her on the other side, readying an apology on her tongue, when a shrill bark drew her focus to the sidewalk.

An elderly woman passed, pausing as her white Yorkie charged the steps Hermione stood upon, yapping like a feral beast, spittle flying as it pulled against its leash with all its might. The owner shook her head in distress, eyeing Hermione warily as she leaned down and picked up the wild creature, pinning its thrashing form to her coat as she strode quickly past.

Hermione swallowed thickly, unable to break the canine’s possessed gaze until the door in front of her parted wide. She spun forward with a gasp, greeted by a familiar silver gaze.

Draco tilted his head, eyes sweeping her over from bottom to top. “I didn’t think I put _that_ much brandy in my coffee.”

She blinked, quickly scrambling for a response. “Good morning… or afternoon, I suppose.”

“Holy shit.” He lifted a pale brow. “Hermione Granger. At my door. On a Sunday.” He leaned into the doorframe. “This is weird.”

She fought the urge to fidget beneath his gaze. “I think you should cut back on the morning brandy.”

“Spouting a lecture before crossing the threshold.” The corner of his mouth turned up. “It really is you.”

“I don’t intend to keep you,” she stated, quelling the urge to roll her eyes. “I merely came to ask for a small favor.”

His smirk deepened. “This should be good.” He stepped back, opening the door wide. “Let’s hear it then.”

She took a grounding breath and glanced over her shoulder, seeing no sign of the dog or its owner, and crossed inside, allowing him room to close the door as she glanced around the room and its furnishings. Tasteful, yet modest. He shook his head as he passed, heading for the couch just beside the foyer, leaning into the backing.

“Just say it.” His tone was sharpened by annoyance. “Before you have an aneurysm.”

She blinked, turning to face him. “Pardon?”

“You obviously have an opinion about my home. Do share.”

Her thoughts churned, earlier dismay giving way to confusion. “I have no opinion.”

He laughed shortly. “You have an opinion on everything.”

Hermione scowled, lips parting to unleash a heated rebuttal—

_Remember why you’re here._

She bit her tongue, inhaling slowly and reforming her statement. “I was simply taking in my surroundings. But since you _asked_ , I think your home is lovely.”

“Lovely.”

“Yes, lovely… in a masculine sense.”

He rolled his eyes. “Christ.”

“I’m just surprised,” she added hastily. “I was expecting—”

“The Manor?”

She blinked, falling silent as his gaze narrowed.

“Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think, Granger.”

She shook her head, thoughts scrambling for purchase as desperately as the mice in Theo’s lab.

_Well, this is off to a smashing start._

“I don’t…I didn’t—”

“Christ, relax.” His mask of derision fell away. “I’m fucking with you. I know this is a far cry from what people expect when they see my utter perfection.”

Relief stole through her chest, pulling a heavy sigh from her lungs. “Your grip on reality is as firm as ever.”

He crossed his arms, tilting his head and regarding her carefully. "So, what do you want?"

Tension fused her spine anew. She folded her hands over front, forcing her posture to remain at ease. “I’d like Daphne’s number. Her private line, if she has one.”

Despite her casual repose, he reacted just as she'd anticipated, amusement fading and eyes turning guarded.

“Why?” He snapped, voice dripping with mistrust.

Hermione inhaled slowly. She’d been preparing her speech since leaving the laboratory, confident in her reasoning, careful in her persuasion, but now that it came time to deliver the words aloud they slipped through her fingers like sand.

“She seemed quite distressed the last time we spoke,” she hedged carefully, testing the water.

Draco scowled, pushing her head beneath the surface with both hands. “Of course she’s distressed, her sister is missing, likely dead.”

The statement was a searing lance through the heart, a painful reminder of her own worst fears. But Hermione knew his callousness was born of anger and fear and refused to let it distract her from the main objective.

“I simply thought I might offer her some comfort, however small. We’re in similar positions, after all.”

His metal gaze raked her face, pointed features twisting into a signature sneer. “Jesus you’re an abysmal liar.” He shook his head, holding her gaze without reprieve. “Alright, one more time: tell me why you really want her number and I _might_ actually consider giving it to you.”

Hermione’s hands fell apart, balling tight at her sides. “Her father hired a team of private investigators. I want to know what they’ve unearthed, if anything.” A beat. She swayed with the force of her heartbeat. “They may have information on Ginny.”

His jaw tensed. “They haven’t found a damn thing.”

“They’ve turned up nothing on Astoria. But they don’t know Ginny is missing, the police never linked her case to others. They may be sitting on vital information without realizing it.”

“So you mean to detract from Tori’s investigation?”

She bristled. “Of course not. I only want access to the information they’ve already procured.”

He lifted his chin, standing away from the couch and widening his stance. “Daphne’s suffered enough.”

Hermione searched his gaze, leaning forward beseechingly. “So have the Weasleys and every other family that’s been affected by this. Nothing will heal their pain except finding their loved ones or receiving closure.” She wet her lips, hope revived by the subtle softening of his features. “I don’t have access or connections to any of the other families. Only Daphne, and only through you. Talking to me won’t make Astoria’s situation any worse. But there’s a chance it could make it better. For Ginny as well.” She stepped forward. “Please, Draco.”

He held her gaze over the mile-long expanse of hardwood, a storm raging in his eyes. She counted her heartbeats, quelling the tremor in her limbs, already concocting a Plan B when he refused her desperate plea and threw her back onto the street—

“Wait here.” His terse voice shattered through her dread like a sledgehammer. “I’ll be right back.”

She blinked, knees locking in place. “Thank you.”

Hermione’s breath hitched as he stepped past, shoulder nearly brushing her own. She shifted away, startled by the sudden tempo in her ears.

A pulse. Strong, steady… and decidedly not her own.

Draco turned for the hall without a parting glance. She closed her eyes, tipping her head back and willing her senses to settle, for his heartbeat to fade from her mind. He rounded the corner, disappearing from sight, but she could still hear the unrelenting thrum of his arteries like a thumping bass drum.

Hermione knew then and there with undeniable certainty her time was limited… and silently vowed to make every last moment of it count.

* * *

Parvati pushed open the door to her building with both hands, sending it crashing into the opposite wall with a bang.

“This is ridiculous!” She seethed, charging headlong into the narrow lobby. “The sun isn’t even down!”

“That’s the entire fucking point,” Ron ground back, trailing several feet back.

“Don’t get lip with me!” She snapped, fishing the keys from her pocket. “I let you drag me here, didn’t I?”

“Bitching the entire way.”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

He shook his head, following down the hall. “You’ve made your opinion on the matter perfectly clear. Feel free to stop talking any time.”

She stopped before her door, eyeing him over her shoulder with a speculative expression. “You really believe your own horse drizzle, don’t you? You weren’t just trying to scare me.”

He clenched his jaw, glancing away as he leaned into the wall beside her.

"You think there are vampires in New York City," she concluded, sliding the key into the lock but making no motion to open it.

“I know there are,” he murmured, still refusing to meet her gaze.

She raised a brow. “I don’t know whether to feel pity or amusement.”

“Feel anything you’d like, just do it inside your apartment with the doors and windows locked.”

“Seriously, Weasley.” She crossed her arms, slumping against her door. “How many blows to the head does one have to take to believe in children’s tales?”

“You heard Harry.”

“As far as I’m concerned you’re both delusional. So is your little scientist friend, assuming he even exists. There’s no telling how deep your fantasy runs.” She tilted her head, examining him from an angle as though it would reveal some clue to the budding mystery. “Then again, this could all be a juvenile prank gone too far. I wouldn’t put it past you to—”

“Then why did you spend the afternoon searching with me?” His demanded, gaze snapping to her at last, bright with rage.

“Because,” she stated calmly, unaffected by his ire. “Deluded or not, Lavender is still missing.” She chewed on the rest, spitting it free with obvious reluctance. “And I know you want to find her.”

Ron blinked, studying her in the awkward silence that followed before glancing away and standing from the wall. "I'll see you tomorrow after your shift ends."

She nodded, pushing back from her door and grasping the key. “Don’t be late, or I leave without you.”

“I’ll be here.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, turning to leave. The metal bolt clicked as she turned it, hand hovering at the knob.

“Weasley.”

He stopped, glancing back.

"For what it's worth…" she idly traced a seam in the wood. "I know there are things in this world that can't be explained. Anomalies science and reason can't touch."

He raised a brow.

Parvati met his gaze. “But vampires…” she smirked. “That’s just stupid.”

Ron laughed shortly, scratching the back of his neck. “Still better than werewolves.”

She rolled her eyes with a wry grin, shouldering open her door. “Piss off.”

His gaze lingered upon her a moment more before he did just that, backing away another few steps and turning on his heel, a reluctant grin spreading as he headed back into the waning evening light.

* * *

Harry adjusted the strap over his shoulder, muscles sore and feet aching as he rounded the corner onto E 14th Street. He’d spent the day dutifully scouring every corner shop and eatery within East Village, pinning her flyer every place he could before running out of sheets an hour prior. He’d taken to showing owners and patrons her graduation photo instead, slowly making his way Northbound. He planned to make more copies first thing in the morning, enough to tackle East Side and Little Italy without pause.

But as he breached Stuyvesant he realized just how late it was. The blocks began to glow with street lamps, shop windows illuminated with gas lights, restaurants preparing for the evening rush. Harry gazed up, eyeing the empty grey sky, a great void in the cosmos. The clouds had blocked out the sun hours ago, making it impossible to discern the passing of time. He stopped at the intersection, peering through a haze of car exhaust to catch a glimpse of a clock mounted on the bank wall.

Shit.

Once again, the day had gotten away from him. There was no time to grab a bite or sit and rest. He had to start heading to Gramercy know if he had any hope of beating sunset. He could only hope Ron and Parvati found more success in their pursuit.

The crosswalk light flickered, signaling pedestrian traffic forward. Harry moved with the crowd, debating the quickest mode of travel. He didn't mind traversing by foot, exhausted as he was, but doubted he'd be able to make it through rush hour before darkness bathed the city. He briefly considered taking a cab but dismissed the notion with a curt shake of the head. No, he needed to conserve his money for other resources, tools that related directly to finding Gin.

Which unfortunately left only one option…

Harry sighed, coming to a stop before the staircase leading down down down to a pit of darkness.

The Subway.

He stared into the pool of shadow with a heavy heart, eyes unblinking, losing focus until he sensed movement within the darkness, a swarm of bats, the undulating muscles of beasts, clawing and scrambling, jaws snapping and fangs flashing—

Faces materialized from the dark mist, smoke dissipating, giving rise to reality. Harry blinked, staggering back and running a hand over his face as the underground patrons ascended, emerging from the station. He stood aside, out of their way, waiting for the crowd to pass.

_It just had to be the fucking subway._

The first station was erected when Harry was only a boy, the Metro’s rapid success and popularity giving rise to a handful of others within a matter of years. When he left for California there had been eight in total scattered across the island, but in his brief absence that number had grown even more. There were even rumors of upcoming bridge rails connecting the outside boroughs. An ingenious invention, even if he detested it so.

The crowd thinned at last. Harry breathed a heavy sigh, fishing coins from his pocket as he started down the steps. Static danced across his skin as he passed beneath the brick archway, shadows swallowing him whole. He emerged into a pool of light, lanterns mounted to the walls, illuminating the path to the turnstiles. He fell into the haphazard line, feeding his money into the slot and pushing through the gate, shoulders drawing in as people surged through without regard for personal space.

He remembered hopping the same turnstiles as a teenager, usually with one or more of the Weasleys in tow, laughing wildly as attendants blew their whistles and chased them onto the platform, losing the wily teens in the surging crowd. He clung to the memory a few moments longer, desperate to calm his rising pulse as he progressed through the next archway, following the crowd to the platform, the hum of lights and incessant conversation making his skull rattle.

The thrill of the underground had long worn off since his youth. Now Harry could barely keep one foot in front of the other, a sense of dread mounting with every jostle, every push. Regret pressed heavy against his bones, his shoulders and lungs. The station was too cramped, too isolated, too far down in the earth. A giant cage made of brick and steel—

_Calm the fuck down._

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and forced his eyes ahead, arriving on the platform at last. He took shelter at the back, near a wall of advertisements while the crowd steadily gathered along the edge of the tracks. An attendant walked between patrons, red coat glaring like a beacon as he held his lantern aloft, calling out the wait time. The next train would arrive any minute.

Harry tugged his coat tighter, pulling his collar high, recounting the utter failure of his day as a means of distraction. The City was never ending, an undulating Leviathan with countless hidden chambers. And they hadn’t even taken their search outside Manhattan. She could be anywhere. If she was even alive.

_Don’t think it. What’s the point to any of this if you give up now?_

He tipped his head back, eyes closing, desperate to drown out the murmur of the crowd.

_She’s dead._

Harry went rigid, eyes flaring wide and head snapping forward. His hand began to tremble. He clenched it tight, gripping the wrist and shoving it inside his pocket.

_Breathe. Just breathe._

He closed his eyes once more, this time welcoming the endless call of the underground, the echoing rattle of steel beams, the droning chatter of floating heads, the electrical hum of cables.

His pulse slowed.

 _Ginny_.

He forced his mind back to her. Back to sense and reason. The search. The start.

_We need to rebuild her final days. Figure out every place she went, every person she talked to._

His eyes peeled open, gleaming brightly in the darkness.

“Everyone she talked to…” he whispered, picturing her black diary in his hand.

He was transported back to the tiny closet, metal hangers digging into his arms and chest as he flipped through the worn, yellowed pages. He envisioned her final entry, the detailed account of her office run-in. They needed to track down the mystery woman, question her, find out what she knew, if she was somehow linked.

Harry blinked, recalling the brochures.

_She wanted out of here._

He harbored no doubt Ginny was desperate to escape. But was she running towards something she wanted... or away from something she feared?

The ground shook, abruptly scattering his thoughts. A high pitched whistle echoed off the stone, overhead lights flickering as the train drew near. Dust fell from the beams overlaying the tracks, air pressure shifting as a swelling light appeared at the far end of the tunnel. The crowd surged. Harry stepped away from the wall, eager to board, to get this waking nightmare over with.

And then he felt it.

Eyes. Watching him.

He turned his head, gazing to his right on instinct. His heart seized, overhead lights flickering rapidly, creating a strobe effect. But between the pulses a pair of orange glowing eyes watched him steadily from the other end of the platform, face cast in darkness, features muddled by shadow and the shifting crowd.

The train roared into the station like a thundering beast, engine deafening, carrying a surge of heat and electricity. The lights blazed bright and the inhuman eyes disappeared, their owner swallowed by the sea of strangers.

The train slowed, doors hissing open. Harry’s senses erupted into chaos as people pushed and pulled, eager to board, others eager to disembark. He was jostled back and forth, feet frozen in place, eyes locked onto the last place his Watcher stood. Shock rendered him numb, doubt poisoned his mind, reality bled away somewhere in the middle.

“Sir, are you boarding?”

Harry jolted, glancing down. The attendant stood a head shorter, gazing up with a raised brow. He moved the lantern beside Harry’s face, nearly blinding him.

“Sir?”

Harry opened and closed his mouth, glancing around. The platform was nearly empty. No one was looking at him.

“Boarding,” Harry muttered, stepping forward and entering the last car in the row. He squeezed between bodies, cringing at the cramped quarters as he grabbed an overhead rail, teeth clenching painfully as the doors hissed shut.

Trapped. Like an animal.

The attendant blew his whistle on the platform, signaling the driver. The engine roared to life, gears rumbling beneath his feet, radiating through his body. He squeezed the bar tighter yet, body rocking in place as the train started forward, steadily gaining speed. The platform disappeared in a blur as they shot through the tunnel, the windows displaying utter blackness but for an intermittent lantern strung to the wall. The overhead lights of the car dimmed, casting the swarm of faces in shadow.

Harry eyed his fellow passengers carefully, catching a few gazes as he went. But the majority appeared harried, exhausted after a long day of work, hands gripping purses and briefcases and grocery bags. Their eyes didn’t linger upon him. No one paid him any notice.

Except for one.

A young woman, smirking as he met her keen stare. But the look she bestowed him with didn't glow orange or radiate with sinister energy. No, she signaled him in quite a different way, winking and giggling softly. He disregarded her as the lights flickered, the car rocking as it followed a curved path. He continued to search the crowd, realizing a moment later he was the most suspicious looking person on board.

Great.

He closed his eyes, rubbing his brow his with his free hand.

_It was a trick of the light. If you search for a monster in every shadow you’re bound to find one._

He released his breath in a rush.

_It’s daylight. They can’t be out yet._

Harry swallowed heavily, resting his forehead against his bicep, finding both comfort and terror in that simple fact.

For if he wasn’t being stalked by Vampires, he was losing his mind.

And if he wasn’t losing his mind…

They had finally found him.

* * *

Hermione tipped her head back as she passed through the ominous Mansion gates, glimpsing the dark grey sky above.

_… the same color as Riddle’s eyes._

She stiffened, head snapping forward as she pushed the rod iron closed at her back, quickening her step across the cobblestone path. She’d forgotten to check the radiosonde report this morning. Reading the newspaper suddenly felt like a distant memory, a luxury from another lifetime.

The wind chased her up the steps, lifting the loose strands of her hair as she crossed the porch and unlocked the front door. She entered with a sigh of relief, eager to be inside the mansion for the first time in her life.

“Hello?” She called out, removing her scarf and peering around the empty entryway. The grandfather clock answered with a deafening chime, jarring her as she shrugged free of her coat. “Harry?”

“Still gone!” A familiar voice rang from a distance. “We’re in— err… whatever room has the big bay window and fancy ass curtains!”

Hermione grinned, folding her coat over the banister and starting for the parlor. She pulled the pins from her hair as she rounded the corner, shaking curls loose with her finger. "Susan, thank you so much for coming over. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

The nurse stood from the silk-upholstered couch, setting a steaming mug onto the coffee table. “No problem, doll. Always happy to help, especially if it means getting to see inside Gramercy at long last.”

Hermione crossed the rug, focus darting to her father, seated at the bay window and staring into the street. “Number Twelve is a bit of an outlier compared to the rest of the neighborhood.”

“I like it. The house has character.”

Hermione laughed softly. “That’s one word for it.” She glanced back to the young woman. “Did you have any trouble today?”

“Not at all.”

“Really? I was afraid he’d wander, new surroundings can be a bit jarring for him.”

“Actually, it seems the house is stirring up his memory. He showed me where to find a box of matches to light the kettle.”

Hermione blinked, resting her hands atop the back of the sofa. “He did?”

“I know, strange how it works sometimes, isn’t it?” Susan grinned, crossing for the doorway. “The mind is a mystery.”

Hermione swallowed lightly, eyes drifting to her father once more. “Yes. It is.”

Susan paused beside her. “Well I’d better be off, need to swing by the market before heading home.”

“Now? But the sun’s—” Hermione stopped short, unsure how to frame her concern without sounding certifiable. Susan lifted a brow, waiting patiently. “Hidden,” Hermione continued, scrambling for words. “Behind storm clouds. The rain will start anytime.”

The nurse deflated. “Crap.” She glanced to the window, eyeing the encroaching darkness. “In that case, I suppose I can put off my errands until tomorrow.”

Hermione stood tall with relief, following Susan to the entry. "There's something I want you to have," she said, heading for her bag hanging from the banister.

Susan’s gaze widened as Hermione pulled a silver flask from inside.

“Mione, you devil!” she laughed. “Are you smuggling hooch?”

Hermione couldn’t contain her own peel of laughter. “Not quite.” She held out the container. “It’s botanicals, for your bath.”

Susan tilted her head. “Oh.” She accepted the offering with a puzzled grin. “Thank you.”

“It’s unscented,” Hermione added, idly playing with the hem of her blouse. “But don’t let that fool you, the mixture is great for your skin. A few drops should do.”

_Really? You have no idea what you’re talking about. For all you know holy water is completely useless._

Still, she felt better sending the young woman off with _something_. She had no idea how to make ropes of garlic and a crucifix seem commonplace.

Susan took the gift in stride. “I’ll use some tonight. Thanks, Mione.”

“Of course.”

Hermione followed her towards the door, only to pause in confusion as the nurse pressed her hand to a seemingly innocuous portion of the wall. There was a loud click and then the panel swung free, revealing a dark cubby filled with hangers and a single coat. Susan reached inside, extracting the garment.

Hermione gaped in silence for several moments before finding her voice. “I had no idea the wall could do that.”

The woman nodded, shrugging on the coat. “I know, it startled me, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if this place had an underground cave system.” She tugged her hair from beneath the collar. “Have you spent much time here?”

“I only visited once, as a child.” Hermione folded her arms across her middle. “It terrified me.”

“I can see why.” Susan shut the panel halfway, stepping back. “I can’t imagine growing up in a place like this.”

Hermione thought of Sirius, heart twisting between her ribs.

“Well, it’s a good thing your dad showed me how it opened,” Susan added, halting her thoughts. “Crooks was locked inside, probably would’ve been trapped for days if we hadn’t found him.”

Hermione opened and closed her mouth, pulse skipping. “Papa showed you how to open the panel?”

Susan nodded. “Like I said, funny how the mind works. His memories are really bubbling. Waverly getting overrun by termites may have been a blessing in disguise.”

Termites? Right. The flimsy excuse she’d concocted over the phone to explain their sudden departure from her childhood home.

“The universe works in mysterious ways,” Hermione uttered, mind still reeling.

“You can say that again.” Susan stepped to the door, pulling it wide. “Alright, doll, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Have a great night,” Hermione’s brow creased as she watched the woman progress across the porch. “And be careful on the steps.”

“Will do.” Susan waved her farewell, gazing forward as she emerged on the cobblestone.

Thunder rumbled overhead, distant but unsettling. Hermione looked to the sky, darker than when she arrived. The sun was almost set, and Harry still wasn’t home.

She closed the door as the nurse slipped through the gate, pressing both hands to the wood and swallowing heavily. A cool draft swept across her ankles, blowing towards the wall. Hermione slowly turned to face the hidden panel, staring into the pulsing darkness and wondering how her frustratingly clever cat came to be trapped inside… and how her dementia-stricken father had known how to open it.

After all, Richard Granger had never stepped foot inside Number Twelve Grimmauld before yesterday afternoon.

* * *

Abraxas inhaled deeply, scenting the oncoming rain and feeling the electrical build-up in the air, charged particles dancing in the street lights. He flicked open his silver pocket watch, checking the time and meeting his own pale gaze in the reflection of the glass. He flicked it shut in the next beat, eyes fastened to the quaint dwelling situated across the street, windows darkened, curtains drawn, no sound of life or movement rattling within. He may lack Tom’s ability to sense the girl’s powers on the atmosphere but he would certainly be able to hear her heartbeat if she were behind those walls.

He tucked the watch into his vest, wondering once more about the woman who bested his Maker with no more than a flick of the wrist. There was no doubt about it. Hermione Granger was turning. Now the question was: into what?

Abraxas stiffened as the wind changed direction, carrying an all too familiar scent along with it. He ground his teeth, swiftly diverting his attention from the home and starting down the sidewalk, weaving between pedestrian traffic as he progressed along Waverly.

The unwelcome presence at his back continued to follow, making no effort to conceal his pursuit. Abraxas turned into the nearest alley, shaking his head with resigned annoyance as he straightened his bespoke jacket, waiting patiently.

Humans continued to mill past the mouth, oblivious to the supernatural entities in their midst. A handful of seconds passed until footsteps drew near, followed by a long shadow cast over the worn bricks.

“Good evening, General,” the man greeted as he stepped between the buildings, stopping just past the entrance.

Abraxas lifted his chin. “Rodolphus.”

Lestrange smiled, fangs extended. “It’s been too long, old friend.”

“Old, yes. Friend, quite debatable.”

Rodolphus pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

“Yet I see no blood.” Abraxas raked the tall figure with his gaze, seeing no obvious signs of weapons. “Friends do not follow each other through the dark of night like rats scurrying after a scrap of food.”

Rodolphus dropped his hand, gaze narrowing. “Fascinating choice of word.” He stepped deeper into the alley, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I see only one _rat_ in my midst.”

“Speak plainly,” Abraxas said evenly, offering no reaction. “I have no patience for your dramatic flourish.”

“You betrayed your own kind.”

“If that were so my head would no longer be attached to my body. The Council does not take kindly to traitors.” Abraxas’ eyes flashed, turning molten. “You’ll do well to remember that the next time your _Master_ sends you on a fruitless errand to betray her superiors.”

Rodolphus edged closer. “You consider yourself superior to our Queen?”

Abraxas cringed at the moniker as Lestrange grinned, undoubtedly pleased to elicit a reaction at long last.

“Or have you and Riddle finally merged into one being?”

“I’m quite capable of independent thought, Rodolphus. You might give it a try sometime.”

Lestrange released a snarl, surging forward with fangs and claws extended. Abraxas caught him by the throat, slamming him into the wall on pure instinct, forearm bracing his chest and pinning him with ease.

“Your infant Queen may bear the blood of an ancient but you do _not_ ,” Abraxas hissed, leaning in. “Do not forget it is _I_ who outranks _you_ , both in title and ability." His fangs lengthened, gleaming in the muted streetlight. "Pick your battles wisely, Lestrange, or you shall know exactly what it means to be labeled a traitor."

He pushed back, releasing his prisoner and adjusting his cufflinks.

Rodolphus sank to the ground, the wind knocked from his lungs. “I thought you were a Pacifist now,” he wheezed, rubbing his chest.

Abraxas considered the statement, lifting a pale brow. “I am many things. Whatever is necessary to protect this city from its own bloodlust.”

“Protect the city…” Lestrange leaned his head against the brick. “But not our kind.”

“Our kind only need protection from each other.” Abraxas turned, walking calmly towards the mouth of the alley. “Good night, Rodolphus.” He withdrew his pocket watch once more. “Send Bellatrix my best.”

He flicked it open, turning onto the street and gracefully entering the flow of traffic. A drop of rain hit the glass surface, exploding like blood splatter.

* * *

Parvati opened her door, peering either way down the narrow hall as though expecting Weasley to rear his flaming head and shove her back inside. Alas, no figure dropped from the ceiling or burst from the tiles. She stepped out, closing her door with a determined glare.

Parvati didn’t believe a single word of that buffoon's lunatic rambling. Not a _word_.

Really, she didn't.

And yet… she hesitated before locking her door, opting to hold her key between her fingers like a blade instead of tucking it into her bag.

Fucking Weasley.

It wasn’t the tale that rattled her. Her own father had spun truly terrifying yarns in her youth, a master story-teller, always eager to impress and horrify his daughters in equal measure. No, it was Weasley’s utter conviction when delivering the warning that got to her, the intensity of his gaze as he begged her to lock her door and bolt her windows as soon as the sun sank beneath the horizon.

But the disturbing gleam in his eye made no difference. Parvati refused to sequester herself inside all night. Not when Lavender was still out there. Every minute was precious. She wouldn’t waste a single moment on something as useless as _fear_. For Parvati only feared one thing in this life… Losing someone else she loved.

She turned on her heel, storming down the hall in a fit of righteous fury, ready to challenge anyone stupid enough to get in her way. She pulled her coat tight and pushed the door wide, emerging on the stoop, only to rock back on her heels, gazing at the black sky, dense clouds illuminated by white threads of lightning. The thunder was quick to follow, shaking the ground beneath her feet.

 _Shit_.

But there was nothing for it. Short of being struck dead by lightning nothing would keep her indoors tonight.

Not even vampires.

She rolled her eyes at the notion. _So fucking stupid_ —

“Hi.”

Parvati screamed, leaping a foot in the air before whipping around, key raised, ready to strike for the jugular.

“Holy hell!” The woman shouted, holding her hands aloft, cigarette burning steadily between her fingers.

Parvati gasped, sinking back against the wall. “Shit, Luce! You scared the piss outta me!”

“I can see that,” Lucy smirked, bringing the cigarette to her lips. “You heading in or out?”

Parvati stood from the wall, trying to settle her frayed nerves. “Out.”

“Hm.” The woman took a long drag. “Off to see the boyfriend.”

Parvati blinked. “Boyfriend?”

Her neighbor released a curling stream of smoke. “The Ginger lad you’ve been running around with.”

Parvati’s jaw fell wide, nearly gagging. “He isn’t— we aren’t—” she shivered with revulsion. “I can’t even process the horror.”

“Horror? He’s a looker, nice body as well.” Lucy’s gaze narrowed, keen and curious. “What, is it a crime scene in his pants or something? I once dated a guy with half a—”

“Please, I’ve just eaten.”

“So you’re not humping like rabbits?”

Parvati pressed a hand to her middle. “I beg you— _stop_.”

The woman laughed, emitting smoke with each syllable. “In that case, send him my way next time. I like the young ones, easier to teach new tricks.”

Lightning split the sky, bathing them with white light.

“Storm’s nearly here, you better get going.”

Parvati nodded, starting down the steps. “See you later, Luce.”

“Night, kid.” Lucy started inside, reaching for the handle. “Oh, Parv!”

Parvati stopped, turning.

“What’s up with Blondie?” Her neighbor asked, flicking ashes over the railing. “Haven’t seen her in a couple days.”

Parvati blinked, vision swimming. “Lavender…” She wet her lip, steadying herself with a hand against the wall. “She’ll be back. Soon.”

Lucy raised a brow. “Whatever you say.” She winked, opening the door and disappearing inside. Parvati watched the barrier swing shut, heart leaping with the heavy click.

Another round of thunder rattled the earth as she turned to face the dark street, starting forward with renewed determination.

* * *

Harry raced across the crooked steps, thunder chasing lightning above, filling the air with static and making his hair stand on end. He was shocked to beat the rain, throwing the door wide with latent adrenaline, still on edge from his disturbing Subway encounter.

He barely crossed the threshold when a soft body collided with his own, arms weaving around his neck and wild hair filling his vision. He wrapped an arm around her middle, holding her off the ground as she clung tight.

“I was so worried!” Hermione cried.

“Sorry I’m late.” He kicked the door shut at his back. “The train got delayed, an electrical issue with one of the tracks—”

“You’re home safe, that’s all that matters.”

His heart swelled.

 _Home_.

He grasped her waist and helped lower her to the ground.

“Did you find anything?” She asked, eyes bright and eager.

The warmth in his chest cooled at once, ice careening down his spine and through his limbs. He shook his head.

She deflated, nodding solemnly before grasping his shoulder. “You will.”

He looked away, unable to face the disappointment in her eyes, no matter her words of reassurance. He stepped back from her touch, raking a hand through his hair and glancing around the entry, eyes lingering on the glossy wood of the side table, the gleaming front of the grandfather clock. His hand dropped.

“Did you clean?”

Hermione blinked. “Oh.” She shifted awkwardly, lacing her fingers together. “A bit. I was too anxious to sit still.”

He smirked. “Thanks.”

“It’s nothing.”

Something in her tone gave him pause. He tilted his head, eyeing her closely. “So, how was your day?”

She bit her lip, wringing her hands together. Harry stiffened, braced for the next train wreck of his life.

“I reached out to Daphne but haven’t heard back,” Hermione said quickly. “I’m going to try again tomorrow.”

_Daphne?_

Harry blinked, racking his mind for the source of the familiar name. He straightened, realization dawning with the next lightning strike. The window glowed brightly with the burst, illuminating half their figures in blinding light.

“Greengrass?” He asked.

Hermione nodded.

“I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

“Her younger sister is missing,” she said.

His heart stuttered.

“Astoria is Ginny’s age,” she continued. “From the few details I was able to garner the circumstances of her disappearance are similar. Daphne’s father hired a team of private investigators, I’m hoping she’ll be willing to put us in touch with them.”

Private investigators, homeless junkies, clever squirrels, Harry would happily accept any help they could get.

“That’s brilliant, Mione.”

Her answering smile was tinged in sadness. "According to Draco, they've had about as much success as us. Still, I'd like to compare notes."

Harry blinked, shoulders tensing. “Draco is helping us now?”

She rolled her eyes. “Relax. You won’t have to interact with him.”

He shook his head, attempting to smooth his hair back— to little avail, the strands eagerly absorbing every bit of electricity hovering in the air. “If it helps us find Gin, I’ll deal with the smug prick.”

Her smile never wavered, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“What is it?” He asked, leaning forward on instinct.

She took a half-step back, primly folding her hands and squaring her shoulders, expression frightfully blank. “I visited Theo today.” A tense beat. “I told him everything.”

Harry’s hands clenched, bruised knuckles cracking. “I thought we—”

“I’m infected.”

He fell silent, pulse fluttering so quickly it hardly seemed to beat.

“I’m changing, Harry. Bit by bit. Hour by hour. Minute by minute.” She swallowed miserably, swaying in place. “Even now, I can feel it happening inside me. Trapped in the pit of my stomach, at the base of my skull, prying beneath my ribs. Dark tendrils reaching, spreading, strangling everything I am and replacing it with something monstrous—”

“Hermione—”

“If something happens to me I want you to take guardianship of my father.”

He reeled back.

“Not to take care of,” she said, stepping forward. “I’d never saddle you with such a tremendous burden. You can put him in assisted living, Susan will help you. I’ve set some money aside—”

“Stop!” He grabbed her arms, shaking her in the wake of his rising panic. “You _aren’t_ dying.”

“No.” Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “What’s happening to me is much worse.”

He searched her gaze, fingertips pressing her flesh until he felt his heartbeat throbbing in each. “You’re becoming one of them,” he whispered.

She looked away, a tear overspilling her bottom lashes. She wiped it away, voice carefully measured. “Theo isn’t sure. My blood samples... they look different from the others. I need to bring him the jar, so he can start searching for a cure.”

He nodded quickly. “I’ll bring it to him tonight—”

“No,” she gazed up, eyes unsettlingly calm. “The rain is about to start.”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s not safe to take the artifact out at night.” She placed her hands flat to his chest. “The infected can sense it. At least Riddle could.”

Harry’s vision flashed red at the bastard’s name. He blinked quickly, gripping her tighter, his only tether to reality.

“I’ll bring it to Theo in the morning,” she stated, breaking his dark trance.

“I can—”

“I want you to stay focused on Ginny.”

“Mione—”

“ _Please_ , Harry.” Her voice cut through like a serrated blade. “There’s nothing you can do for me. I didn’t even want to tell you, I knew how you’d react. But I don’t know how long I have left and I want you to be prepared. I want to know you’ll continue searching for her, regardless of what happens to me.”

His vision swam, her face losing focus beneath him. “Please stop talking like that,” he whispered, voice strangled. “I’m not losing you. I’m not losing anyone else.” He shook his head, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye. “But especially not you.”

She reached up, wiping the wetness from his cheek with her thumb. “I’m going to do everything I can to fight it, Harry. I promise.”

“Theo will find a cure,” he vowed. “I’ll give him whatever he needs. He’ll find it.”

Her hands twisted in his shirt. “I’m so sorry, Harry. I never meant to upset you. But I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.”

His spine turned to stone, blood draining from his head in a rush.

“It’s alright,” she whispered, holding his terrified gaze in her thrall. “I don’t expect you to give up your secrets to me. But I needed to tell you mine.” She wet her lips, leaning into him. “I don’t want to be alone in this.”

“You aren’t alone.” He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, her hands still pinned between them, framing his rapid heartbeat. “I’m with you, no matter what happens, I’m with you, Mione.”

She choked back a sob, trying to disguise it as a laugh.

“We’ll find a cure,” Harry whispered against her temple, smoothing a hand over her hair. “We’ll find Gin.” He rested his chin atop her head as she trembled in his arms. Lightning struck, illuminating the monstrous storm clouds and half of his lethal visage, as well as a pair of gleaming, golden eyes. “And I’ll kill anyone who gets in our way.”

* * *

Abraxas turned the corner, emerging deep in the heart of Downtown. Steam billowed from the metal grates as rain drizzled from the black sky. The crowd had thinned, residents preparing for the oncoming monsoon. Fewer mortals roaming the streets meant fewer bodies to deal with come morning, a small boon in the midst of so much chaos. Still, he owed a duty to this City, to Tom, so Abraxas took care to complete his nightly rounds on his way back to the Penthouse, no shortcuts.

Not even to deter the Stalker at his back.

He’d sensed the dark presence since Broadway, the lurking figure following dutifully as Abraxas led the way through the gridlock streets, tracking his steady ascent North towards the Park. The incessant shadow stayed downwind and kept enough distance that Abraxas couldn’t isolate their heartbeat or footsteps. The temptation to glance over his shoulder was strong, but he resisted the urge, knowing a silent warning would do little to deter such brazen stupidity. The mysterious figure undoubtedly knew who Abraxas was and who he worked for and _still_ , they chose to pursue.

He briefly considered Rodolphus had crawled out from the alley Abraxas had left him in and resumed his fruitless chase. But neither Lestrange male could possibly be so reckless and have survived this long. Still, their feckless _Queen_ may have sent another of her pawns sniffing after Tom and his progeny.

Truly, there was only one way to be certain. He needed to set a fox trap.

Abraxas swiftly changed course, weaving through a cluster of pedestrians hauling instrument cases and entered the first alley he came across. These hidden networks were the veins of the City, an endless maze within a maze that flowed like his own life’s blood.

So he was shocked to realize he'd never set foot within this particular off-shoot, at least not in many years, none of the restaurants or shops familiar at first glance. The majority were closed, accordion gates blocking darkened storefronts. Except for the venue at the end of the row, its glittering window covered in beaded curtains, a thin sliver of flickering candlelight visible between the folds.

_“Get out here, con artist! Show your face or I’ll drag you out by your hair!”_

Abraxas wasn't phased by the booming male voice, distant as it was. No doubt a gambling debt about to be settled with fists and hollow threats, if the illustrious opening line was any indication. The area was well-known for underground gambling dens, after all. He'd plucked many a meal from their smoke-addled halls.

Abraxas continued forward, dismissing the voice and mapping out his next move, a little chase to take his relentless fox on.

_“Hello, Mr. Everett.”_

He froze in place, turning his head in the direction of the melodic voice.

_“I didn’t expect to see you in my establishment again.”_

Abraxas lifted his chin, eyes darting along the abandoned alley, lingering on the corner shop at the end.

_“No? Aren’t you a fucking psychic? Don’t hide behind your curtain, little bitch!”_

He crossed to the mouth of the alley, stopping before the crumbling storefront. A small sign hung above the door, blood red with light lettering. A simple declaration, if there ever was one.

**PSYCHIC**

_“Where’s your accomplice? Scamming someone else out of their hard earned cash?”_

Abraxas took a steadying breath, heels locked in place. He made no move towards the door, nor did he consider turning away, not until he heard it once more.

_“Well? Speak!”_

Ironic, Abraxas was thinking the very same thing. He closed his eyes, waiting...

_“I’m sorry that your wife left you, Mr. Everett. But you shall find no relief or redemption at my door.”_

His fists curled at his sides.

_“We’ll see about that.”_

The man’s final words were followed by heavy steps and a mighty crash.

Abraxas stepped forward at last, movements fluid, automatic as he opened the door and stepped inside. The overhead bell chimed softly, causing the man at the center of the shop to whip around, an overturned table at his feet. Abraxas lifted his chin, inhaling a heady combination of sandalwood and amber as he bestowed the red-faced stranger with a pleasant smile.

And then movement pulled his gaze to the far wall. A beaded curtain swayed. Behind which a feminine silhouette dwelled, a glimpse of pale hair and skin visible through the glittering strands. His chest tightened, muscles coiling with anticipation. The base reaction disturbed him greatly. He forced his hands into his pockets and his attention to the seething man.

“Good evening,” he offered cordially.

The human scowled. “Leave.”

“Without my psychic reading?” Abraxas raised a pale brow. “I think not.”

The man blinked, seeming to debate how to proceed. “Trust me, the whores who work here are scam artists, nothing more.”

“And your word is to be trusted?”

The stranger straightened, examining Abraxas more closely. "If you're committed to throwing your money away then so be it. But you should know— the sign on the door isn't code for a pleasure den, either. Neither trollop offers any services beyond vicious lies."

"Yet you refer to them as trollops and whores," Abraxas smirked. "And still it seems you're a returning customer."

The man clenched his teeth, a vein throbbing at his temple. "I came to demand my money back!"

“You received your prior reading free of charge,” the woman stated, voice smooth and even.

Abraxas glanced to the curtain, taking a step forward beyond his control. He blinked, steadying himself as she continued.

“Now I shall ask you once more to depart this place and never return.”

Her heartbeat was calm, scent laced with cedar leaves and citrus and not a trace of fear. Abraxas tore his gaze from the silhouette, focusing on the obstacle lingering between them.

“The lady has asked quite nicely. I suggest you head her request.”

The man scoffed, visage twisted in outrage. “This is none of your business, partner. It’s between me and the woman.”

“Not anymore.” Abraxas smiled, teeth gleaming. “She just ended her association with you.”

The man balled his fists, stepping over the broken table and crossing closer. “Back off, asshole, or get ready to square up in the alley.”

Abraxas felt his grin widen of its own accord. “Oh, I’m ready.” He stood aside, gesturing to the door. “Please, after you.”

The man halted mid-step, eyes widening. He opened and closed his gaping maw before speaking, voice thinner than before. “You’re mad.”

Abraxas chuckled, shoulders shaking with the motion. “Not even close. But don’t worry, when I get mad, you’ll know.”

The stranger stiffened, then glanced to the beaded curtain, brow darkening. “This is a shakedown.” He looked to Abraxas, studying him anew. “You’re working with her.”

Abraxas tilted his head. “And you’re an abnormally paranoid man. I wonder why that is.” His eyes flickered to the swaying curtain, the corner of his lips turning up. “Any ideas, luv?”

Her form remained unmoving as a statue. “He’s embezzling from his employer. It has made him highly distrustful of others.”

The man paled, staggering back as he faced her. “How…” his shock rapidly gave rise to rage. “How are you doing this? Who’s feeding you information?” He stepped towards her. Abraxas’ vision sharpened. “Is my wife paying you? Is the bitch prepping for a hefty divorce settlement?” He charged the curtain. “Tell me!”

Abraxas acted without permission from his brain, surging forward with inhuman speed and grabbing the back of the man’s coat, throwing him headlong into the nearest shelf. But the fool still had enough good sense left within to throw out his arms, stopping the head-on collision and sparing his nose from a spectacular crunch. Candles fell on their sides, rolling to the floor at their feet as Abraxas pinned a hand to the back of the squirming idiot’s neck and grabbed his flailing wrist with the other, twisting an arm behind his back and earning a shocked gasp of pain.

“Your dealings with the girl are over,” he informed the human calmly. “Now, would you still like to square up in the alley?”

The man gulped, struggling to gain momentum with his free arm. “Get your hands off me! I’ll have you arrested for assault!”

Abraxas grinned. “I’ll take that as a resounding no.” He released him, stepping back. “I suggest you find other sources of entertainment this evening… _partner_.”

The man scrambled away, nearly tripping over a candle as he darted to the door, eyes glistening with humiliation and hatred.

“This isn’t over,” he stated, voice too high to be taken seriously… if Abraxas had felt so inclined. He tugged at his collar, neck a blistering red, and sent the young woman one last simmering glare. “Not until I find out who’s paying you, bitch.”

He pulled the door wide and charged into the dark alley, disappearing from sight before the barrier closed behind him.

And then it was just them.

Abraxas inhaled slowly, her scent stronger in the wake of the man’s departure. He counted her rhythmic heartbeats, taking care to keep his movements slow and measured as he turned to face her at last.  
The beads danced in the candlelight, casting glimmering shapes onto the walls, yet her form remained bathed in shadow, hidden from clear view.

“What fortuitous timing you have,” she said at last. He could feel her eyes upon him. “Thank you for your assistance. I am indebted to your kindness.”

He searched for her gaze in the darkness, catching only flashes between the sway of beads. “Kindness shouldn’t be paid back. Only forward.”

Her pulse changed, quickening for a beat before leveling.

"Even so," Abraxas continued, easing his hands back into his trouser pockets. "It is I who am indebted to you. I entered your shop to cure myself of boredom. The endeavor was a smashing success."

She laughed, the sound as melodic as her voice. “I’m happy to have provided you with such a service.” Her posture shifted, just a fraction, just enough to cast a thin sliver of candlelight across her shoulder.

He wet his lips, forcing his feet to remain rooted. “May I see your face?” He asked, hardly aware of his words.

Her heart fluttered, echoing in his ears until it overlaid his own.

“If you’d like,” she replied softly, hands appearing between the dangling strands, separating the threads as she stepped through.

Abraxas barely registered her appearance, unable to look away from her eyes, overwhelmed by a fresh onslaught of her scent. He swallowed thickly, gums throbbing in time to his heartbeat. “What is your name?”

She tilted her head, eyes sparkling like crystal clear water. “Aysel.”

He smirked, tossing the name off the walls of his mind until it struck recognition. “Turkish for moonlight,” he murmured.

She blinked, expression caught between surprise and dismay.

“Beautiful.” He spoke clearly, lips spreading into a full grin. “I imagine your true name is just as so.”

Her hands opened and closed at her sides. “Aysel is the name I offer patrons. For my own protection.”

“A wise practice,” he conceded, allowing the matter to drop for the time being. He drew his shoulders wide, glancing to the door and back. “Was tonight’s encounter a common one?”

“Are you referring to yourself or Mr. Everett?”

He laughed. “The latter.”

“Common? No. Rare? Hardly so.” Candlelight danced across her face. “Not everyone enjoys having their fortune told.”

“And yet they come to a psychic?”

“Naturally. Who better to blame their misfortune on?”

He glanced around the shop, gaze lingering on a crystal ball on the back counter, white smoke swirling beneath iridescent glass.

“Do you work alone?” He asked.

“On occasion.”

His eyes snapped forward. “This neighborhood is filled with less than scrupulous characters.”

“As well as good samaritans, it would seem.”

He smiled at her quip, recognizing the moment for what it was. The end. Their polite banter had run its natural course. The threat to her safety had passed. Lingering in her presence any longer would be a blatant admission he wasn’t ready to face.

_Leave. Now._

His feet didn’t budge.

“Perhaps I’ll become your newest client,” he said with a wry grin.

She matched it with one of her own, the effect breathtaking. “You don’t believe in psychics.”

He laughed, studying her face. “Did you just read my mind?”

Her heart stuttered once more, smile flickering. “I read your eyes.”

His own amusement faded, focus drawn tight at the intensity of her voice. Her gaze was a siren call, drawing him closer. Every footstep sealed her fate, but she didn’t retreat, didn’t flinch or balk. She merely lifted her chin, words erecting a powerful shield.

“You have somewhere else to be.”

He halted, realizing he’d crossed half the shop in a trance. He ran his tongue along his gums, feeling the tips of his fangs. “I do.”

She held his eye without blinking. “But you have no desire to be there.”

He raked his gaze along her front, taking in all of her for the first time. “My skepticism is rapidly waning.”

Her answering smile was soft, secretive. “Then perhaps next time you’ll sit for a proper reading.”

The air turned electric, particles snapping in the air, dancing like fire between them.

The shop door swung wide, the bell ringing loudly, jarring them both.

"Holy shit!" The new entrant shouted as she stepped inside. "Got here just in the nick of time! You'll never guess what crazy bullshit—" the young woman gazed up, catching sight of Abraxas. "Oh." Her dark eyes drifted to the psychic. "Sorry, I…. can come back—"

“That isn’t necessary,” Abraxas offered, folding his hands behind his back and facing the blonde as well. “I was just taking my leave.” He tipped his head. “Good night, Daughter of the Moon.”

She smiled. “Good night…”

“Abraxas.”

She swallowed lightly. “Abraxas.”

His entire body throbbed.

Time to leave.

He turned on his heal, passing the brunette on his way to the exit. “Good evening,” he offered, bowing his head once more.

She smirked, dipping into a low and atrocious curtsy. “Evenin’, Sir.”

Abraxas laughed at her jest, grabbing the handle and opening the door, only to pause in the frame and glance back, needing to look upon her one more time. “Is he really embezzling from his employer?”

She tilted her head, pale hair cascading over her shoulder in a gleaming river. “For the last two years.”

He smirked, buttoning the front of his coat. “I look forward to my reading.” And then he turned away, entering the rain and smoke-filled alley with her glittering smile still emblazoned on his mind.

* * *

Tom progressed along the middle of the road with an unhurried gait, strolling between pools of yellow streetlamp. The sky above was black, void of stars and moonlight, dense clouds smothering the earth.

But he could see the street sign ahead just fine.

Grimmauld.

He hadn’t set foot in this neighborhood in a very long time. So much had changed. So much would change yet. Change, eternal as time itself. He folded his hands behind his back, turning onto the adjoining street, guided by her scent alone. He could no longer sense her aura, a curious anomaly, but one that was soon made evident.

He never saw the outside of the residence in the dreamscape. Her mind had concocted fragments of the interior, snippets of the street beyond. But he knew exactly which home his Egyptologist had taken to hiding within, even without the lure of her scent.

He stopped before the curving iron gates, peering through twisting ivy at the sprawling gothic revival towering on the other side. The haunting architecture stood out like a dark beacon on this quaint residential street. The home's outward appearance was a stunning sight, but far from its most compelling characteristic. Rather, it was the sinister energy radiating from the very foundation of the property, encasing the dwelling like a magnetic field. The shield was undoubtedly blocking her supernatural aura, overpowering it with its own.

He wondered if she chose this particular refuge for that very reason, knowing the power it contained. Or perhaps it was merely a coincidence. Either way… Ms. Granger was fast becoming the most fascinating mortal he'd encountered since being one himself.

Tom stepped closer to the gates. They sang with energy, the metal vibration humming through the tightly packed earth, into muscle and bone, radiating through his skull in silent warning. Lightning split the sky. He set his jaw as thunder rumbled above, a wild beast unleashed from its cosmic prison, roaring from the heavens.

“Hello, there.”

Tom turned slowly, so consumed by the supernatural energy he paid little mind to the elderly man’s approach.

“Can I help you?” The human asked, street light reflecting off his bald head and round spectacles.

Tom regarded the newcomer carefully, recognizing the curiosity on his aged face, scenting the apprehension in his sweat. A nosy neighbor. Tom’s favorite.

“I couldn’t help but admire the architecture,” he offered with a disarming smile.

The man laughed jovially, posture easing as he rested his hands atop his round stomach. "Oh yes, the estate is quite breathtaking. That is if you have an appreciation for the macabre."

Tom licked his lips, glancing back to the ominous gates. “You might consider me an expert on such things.”

“Are you an acquaintance of Mr. Potter?”

_Mr. Potter._

Tom’s smile deepened. “Not yet.” He turned. “I’m a friend of the renowned Ms. Granger.”

The reaction was instantaneous, as though Tom had spoken the magic words aloud, opening the floodgates of neighborly bullshit.

"Ah, Hermione!" The man rocked back on his heels. "How delightful to see her again!" He adjusted his glasses, tipping his head to maintain Tom's steely gaze. "So strange, the home sat empty for so long, so void of light, and now it's positively brimming with life. A much-needed change."

“Have you lived here long, Mr...”

“Please, call me Horace,” he beamed. “And I’ve been here nearly four decades, my boy. Longer than half of these streets have been around.”

Tom inhaled deeply. _Splendid_. "You've known Mr. Potter and Ms. Granger a long time then."

"Since they were born." He laughed anew, as though delivering a punchline. "Oh, the stories I could tell!"

Wind shook the trees, rattling the leaves. The rain started. Just a few drops, but heavy enough to indicate a torrential downpour in their midst.

“Dear me!” The old man gazed at the sky, raindrops bouncing off his lenses and smooth head. “Here I stand rambling like an old fool in the rain.” He removed his glasses, drying them with the corner of his vest. “I’ve kept you from your evening long enough, do tell Harry and Hermione I said hello.”

Tom tilted his head, smile stretching from end to end as a new plan rapidly converged in his mind. “I certainly will.”

The man shoved the glasses onto his face, squirming as the drops came faster, heavier. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr…”

“Riddle.” Tom offered his hand. “Tom Riddle.”

Horace accepted the offering with a terse smile, eager to escape the storm. But as he tried to pull away Tom’s grip tightened, eyes gleaming bright. The man blinked, expression falling lax.

Tom released his hand, taking hold of his mind instead. “And I think I should like to hear those stories now.”

Lightning tore across the sky, illuminating his cunning smile, framed by gleaming fangs.

* * *

Thunder shook the walls, rain pounded the metal roof in a deafening onslaught, each drop a hammer strike. But Theo paid the raging storm little mind, fully absorbed in his task. Hunched over the desk, eyes narrowed behind magnifying spectacles as he examined the selection of slides lined up before him. Granger’s blood, slightly modified in each sample. He needed more. More trials, more time, more blood, more more more—

He sighed, shaking his head as he fed a plate beneath the microscope. The mice continued to riot in their cage, feasting on a pile of ground chuck. They’d been reluctant at first, obviously preferring living meat to the butcher’s block, but he couldn’t risk another skeleton reanimating itself. The cage simply couldn’t withstand a fifth undead occupant.

Another round of thunder began. The lights flickered. Theo tensed, glancing up with a scowl. Cheap goddamn wiring.

He pushed away from the desk, pulling off his magnifiers as he cut a determined path across the laboratory. The breaker box was hidden behind a rolling shelf and he quickly realized the only way to move the obstruction was to first reposition the metal slab containing the body.

Theo sighed, nearly colliding with a rolling cart as the lights continued their dizzying strobe effect. He gripped the edge of the table, kicking up the brake and rolling the slab to the center of the floor before stepping to the shelf, doing the same. Finally, he opened the breaker panel, reaching for the first switch—

The lights cut out entirely. Blackness swallowed the room.

Theo braced a palm against the wall, unable to see his hand before his face, heart pounding louder than the rain. The mice continued to rage, rattling the bars, screaming like feral cats.

Fabric rustled.

Theo spun, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste, eyes narrowed upon the dark abyss. The back-up generator surged, thumping powerfully as it burst to life, red light flooding the ceiling and bleeding down to the laboratory floor in faint beams, bathing the tables and equipment in blood and shadow. He glanced around manically, heart trapped in his throat, breath strangled. Yet nothing looked amiss.

He took a steadying breath, listing against the wall and tracing the shadows with his eyes before turning for the box. But it too was cloaked in darkness, switches invisible against the black backdrop.

“Shit!” He hissed, rubber groaning between his fist as he pushed away, navigating carefully to a shelf against the adjoining wall. Still, he managed to collide with a stool, bruising his shin and cursing splendidly, hopping on one foot and rubbing the injured limb as he reached his destination, fumbling for the lantern.

As he searched out the switch on the base he heard a noise on the laboratory floor, too faint to make out yet echoing all around him. He clicked the lantern on, biting back a shout of terror as he spun, raising the light overhead, a bubble of flickering flame encasing him.

Still, he saw nothing.

Theo gulped, throat bobbing high as he dragged a gloved hand over his face and stumbled for the breaker box. Tools rattled as he collided with the edge of the shelf, losing his footing and catching himself against the metal slab, its occupant rocking with the impact. He scrambled back, darting around the pale feet, eyes catching the ominous blood spot on the sheet as he returned to the box. He held the lantern tight, fist trembling as he flipped the main lever, only for a sea of sparks to shoot out.

“Fuck!”

He reared back, body vibrating with adrenaline.

Something scraped the cement behind him.

Theo spun, eyes wide, the red light pulsing in time to his frantic heartbeat. The lab looked foreign to his gaze, unrecognizable in the crimson light, distorted by long, rippling shadows that transformed his former sanctuary into the bowels of hell. He turned to the breakers, flipping switches at random, hands trembling uncontrollably, only to stiffen with unbridled terror as fabric rustled anew. He felt a presence at his back, the air pressure changing as it drew near, closer closer closer—

Theo flipped the final switch. The lights surged back on, blinding in intensity. He released a panicked howl, turning on his heel and colliding with the wall, crossing his arms like a shield as he braced for attack.

But there was nothing there.

The mice continued to scream in their cage, agitated by the light show. Theo pushed off from the wall and bolted for the stairs, dropping the lantern as he went. The glass shattered, littering the floor as he bounded the steps two at a time, clutching the railing so tightly he was certain he’d tear it from the wall. He tripped halfway up, catching himself with his palms before eating it with his face.

He jumped to his feet, leaping the final step to the catwalk. He slid open the lock and tore open the door, panting like a madman, only to pause at the threshold, halted by a sheet of rain so dense he couldn’t see the mouth of the alley. Theo steadied himself against the frame, inhaling deeply, holding it in his lungs as he fought to slow his racing pulse and mind.

_Calm down, you fucking loon! There’s nothing here._

He turned slowly, bracing the railing with both hands and peering down at the laboratory floor. The cage continued to rattle with such force it hung on the edge of the table. He watched in silent horror as it tipped, hitting the cement with a crash. Theo gasped, waiting for mutilated mice to dart in every direction, trailing blood and intestines in their wake. But the bars held, at least for the moment.

He darted back down the steps without hesitation. With no understanding of how the virus spread he couldn’t risk the creatures escaping, they could infect the entire city within a matter of days.

He jumped the bottom step, racing for the cage— only to trip, feet tangling in a soft mass on the ground. He hit the ground like a sack of grain, grunting with the bone-jarring impact and rolling to his side, shoulder throbbing at the socket. He groaned, trying to collect his bearings, starting with freeing his legs. Theo blinked in confusion, glancing down at the material wrapping his ankles.

A sheet.

He kicked it away, grabbing a corner of the fabric and pulling it close, studying the blood stain. His gulp echoed in his ears as his gaze drifted higher, eyeing the underside of the metal slab situated just beside his prone form. He sat up, gripping one of the table legs for support as he pushed slowly to his feet, body swaying in time to his thrumming pulse.

The table sat empty.

Theo clutched the sheet with a trembling fist, unable to look away, to blink or breathe—

A shuffle sounded.

He spun, facing the standing shelf at the far wall, lungs burning as a pair of yellow eyes gazed out from between the bins, watching steadily.

Theo rocked back, too horrified to scream but still sane enough to run. He dropped the sheet and staggered sideways, aiming for the stairs, only to kick the edge of the fallen cage, its inhabitants going rabid once more. Theo yelped, jolting a foot into the air, senses overwhelmed.

And then he heard it. A quiet gasp.

He settled in place, glancing back to the shelf and the inhuman gaze it revealed. The eyes continued to watch him with unwavering intensity, yet this time Theo was able to recognize the terror housed within. He wet his lips, muscles strained to the point of hypertension.

“H-Hello?” He uttered, voice distorted by fear.

The eyes blinked, offering no other response.

And against all higher reasoning, Theo stepped forward.

The figure scrambled back, knocking a beaker loose, glass shattering on the cement. Theo raised his hands, stopping. “It’s alright!” He swallowed convulsively, mouth filled with sand. “Don’t be frightened.”

He kept his feet firmly rooted, hearing only his stuttered breath and the distant rattle of the cage.

Until, at long last, the figure edged out from behind the shelf. Theo lowered his hands, unable to support their weight in the midst of the newest onslaught.

She appeared no different than she had on the slab. Naked and bloodless, skin pale as the sheet that once covered it. Her hair was dry and brittle, eyes yellowed, sunken and bruised, laced with broken capillaries. Her neck black and blue, torso and limbs littered with broken skin, assorted teeth marks, knees dirty and scuffed. Theo blinked, gaze lingering upon her feet, the mottled flesh of her left ankle, a line of congealed blood dripping from the wound to the ground below.

She swayed as thunder crashed overhead, shaking the warehouse and rattling every bone in Theo’s body. He inhaled slowly, vision blurred as he lifted his gaze, meeting her haunted stare once more.

“Well then,” he stated simply.

And then promptly passed out.


	9. Lotus Rising

_“Am I walking toward something I should be running away from?”_  
~ Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House  
.   .   .

Hermione raised a trembling hand, pressing it flat to the wood. She held her breath, pushing the barrier wide, revealing a cluster of black and white tile to the pulsing overhead lights. She stepped forward, knees locked as the door clicked shut, sealing her in. Her lungs burned for oxygen, vision dimming as she inhaled at last, sharp and painful, senses overwhelmed by the lustrous fragrance hanging heavy on the air.

The Scent.

As powerful and all-consuming as the first time she encountered it, a roaring wave crashing against her from all sides, bending her spine with its intensity. She dug in her heels, grout indenting her bare feet as her eyes tracked to the row of sinks lining the wall. They gleamed brightly, silent and barren. No one stood before them, no witness to her breakdown, nobody to absorb the echo of her footfalls as she started forward, hands tense at her sides.

She padded softly to the central basin, stopping before the porcelain and gazing up, meeting her reflection in the mirror. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting half her face in ethereal glow and cloaking the other side in shadow, an invisible line drawn down her center.

Her eyes were sunken, dim, haunted as a mummified corpse. She leaned down and turned on the sink, filling her palms with cool liquid, splashing it against her face. But her skin suddenly felt numb. She studied the water in her hands, the beads of moisture forming along the porcelain, the steady stream pouring from the faucet.

And then, very slowly, the water turned pink, deepening to red. A crimson waterfall filling the bowl, rising higher higher higher, lapping at the rim, overspilling onto the floor.

Hermione staggered back, watching the red travel through the lines in the grout, outlining each tile, moving towards her feet. She darted forward, cringing at the wetness between her toes as she grabbed the handles, turning them with all her might. But they refused to budge, the blood flowing harder, faster, shaking the pipes and rattling the mirror.

She continued to tug and twist, red splashing her face and neck, her arms and clothes, staining every part of her. A scream welled in her throat, blocking her airway and making her dizzy with panic. She shook her head, shifting back as the pipes banged and rattled, nearly knocking the mirror loose. She glanced up, glimpsing her reflection a second time. And screamed.

A woman stood behind her.

Hermione spun, mouth parted wide, but saw nothing. Her heart skipped every other beat, muscles twitching as she faced the rattling mirror, seeing a woman standing just beyond her shoulder, beautiful and poised.

Her skin was the color of burnt umber, decorated in gold leaf, reflecting the sunlight brilliantly. Her dark hair was woven through with golden strands and jewels, their faceted edges casting prisms across the ceiling and walls, rippling like flowing water. Her eyes shone just as bright, magnetic in their power, large pupils ringed by a thin band of honey, the contrast eerie and mesmerizing. Her full lips were curved in a wry grin, as though she understood something far beyond Hermione’s comprehension.

But what drew her focus rapt was what lay below the neck, the vision so striking Hermione couldn’t look away. The stranger stood nearly nude, draped only in thin gold chains hanging across her breasts and thighs, along her hips and atop her shoulders, leaving little to the imagination yet evoking a myriad of images in Hermione’s mind. Pictures from her history books, from exhibit displays and excavation photos. An ancient fashion Hermione recognized well. And as though the woman could sense the direction of her thoughts, she smiled, revealing white, gleaming fangs.

Hermione knew she should scream, run, struggle, but she stood transfixed and breathless. The woman raised a hand, bangles glittering on her arm and rings adorning each finger, the bauble on her thumb shaped like a feline, its golden tail curving down, wrapping her wrist. She gathered Hermione’s hair and pushed it aside, revealing the column of her neck and holding her gaze as she leaned in, fangs drawing near, lips curved with pleasure. Hermione shivered, feeling warm breath ghost across her throat, the air around her turning charged, alive.

The tips of the lethal points dimpled her flesh, threatening to break the skin as red flooded the woman’s eyes, their honey bands glowing bright, the sight ripping Hermione from her terror-stricken stupor at last.

She screamed shrilly, wrenching free of the stranger’s hold and staggering forward, catching herself against the edge of the overflowing sink and spinning around, braced for attack—

But all that stood before her was a row of empty stalls.

Hermione gasped, pushing away, splashing through blood as she ran for the door, hitting the barrier with both hands and fumbling for the handle, palms slick with red. She lost her grip on the first attempt but clutched it tightly on her second, pulling the barrier wide—

But her path to freedom was blocked. The woman stood at the threshold, hands resting on either side of the frame, cutting off her escape.

Hermione lurched back, hitting the tiled wall with a thud, spine screaming in protest even as her throat clenched in panic. The woman tipped her head back and laughed, the melody deep, rich and inviting, long neck gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. And then the rest of her followed suit until eventually, Hermione realized it wasn't a reflection she was seeing but a full-body emanation.

The light raced down her throat and chest, to her stomach and thighs, into her calves and ankles, across her arms and through her hair, until an aura of golden light encased her entire being, tipped in swaying tendrils like a burning sun. Hermione raised her arm, squinting against the brightness as she pressed flat to the wall, desperate to move through the solid barrier, to hide in the shadows and escape the fate that surely awaited her.

The laughter died down to a rolling echo, thunder in the distance. The woman stepped forward, releasing the frame and crossing the narrow divide, pressing into Hermione as she grabbed her wrist, pulling her arm aside so there was nothing between them. The light overtook Hermione’s vision and infused her skin with scorching heat, wrapping around her until they stood encased within a dome of white, the bathroom falling away.

Hermione opened her mouth, desperate to cry, to scream, to beg, but was silenced by a finger to her lips, the woman’s deep exhale chasing her swift inhale, soft breath cascading across her face, blowing back strands of her hair. The stranger held her gaze, earlier amusement long faded, kohl-lined eyes burning with intensity. She dragged her finger down Hermione’s lips, tugging them gently before cupping her cheek, the cat ring singing against her flesh. She leaned in close, until Hermione nearly went cross-eyed maintaining her gaze.

“Sigat ri:ac wā’baw kūmat,” the woman whispered, each word entering Hermione’s parted mouth, traveling down her throat and falling like a stone to the pit of her stomach. She closed her eyes, body going lax as an arm slid around her waist, pulling her close.

_“Mione.”_

Lips pressed against her own, sealing the ancient pact. Hermione inhaled sharply, taking in light and fire and jasmine and smoke.

_“Hermione!”_

She released her breath in a scream, the lips and hands and arms dropping away from her consciousness. The floor followed suit, sending her into endless free fall down a long, white tunnel, blood churning at the bottom.

“Wake up!”

She opened her eyes, seeing Harry’s face directly before her own. She blinked rapidly, looking around, dazed and panting. He sat on the edge of her bed, holding both of her wrists captive, her fists balled tight, trembling.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he assured, though he didn’t appear certain of his own words.

Hermione twisted her arms, pulling free of his hold to draw a hand over her face, coming away with sweat. She cringed, staring at her glistening palm as Crookshanks wedged himself between their bodies, forcing Harry back, much to her friend’s annoyance.

Hermione dropped her hand, meeting his worried gaze. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“You didn’t, I was already awake.” He eyed her closely. “Nightmare?”

She released her breath in a rush, recalling the woman’s rich laughter, the red infusing her gaze, warm lips pressing against her own.

“I’m not sure.”

Harry rubbed a hand along her arm, squeezing gently, her only warning as to what was to come. “You should rest.”

Her eyes narrowed at once, his innocent tone doing nothing to fool her. “I’m _not_ lying in bed all day.”

His hand dropped away. “I never said that. I just think you should take it easy, maybe take the day off—”

“I have to work, Harry.”

She tossed her covers aside to illustrate her point, swinging her legs over the bed and standing so quickly she got a headrush.

“Mione, this is crazy.”

Blood surged through her ears, her throbbing heartbeat overlaying his voice, followed by a pleasant tingling sensation down her spine, through her legs and into her toes. She wiggled them, feet warm against the cold hardwood. But the sensation soon faded with his next words.

“You’re sick. You could spread it to others.”

She shook her head, starting for her closet, Crookshanks leaping from the bed and padding silently in her wake.

“This isn’t the rhinovirus, Harry.”

“The _what_?”

She sighed, seamlessly stepping over her cat as he weaved in front of her. “If it was airborne then the entire city would have it.”

Harry stood. “Mione, please, what if something happens?”

She grabbed her robe off the back of the door, folding it over her arm before turning. “Then I’ll come home.”

Suddenly, without warning or cause, another headrush overtook her, so powerful she saw stars dance before her eyes, spindling light falling from the ceiling like confetti, obscuring his face. She closed her lids, swaying gently as a sudden euphoria filled her head like fluffy white cotton, making her weightless, soft, melted—

It was then she realized she’d tipped sideways, losing her balance. Harry rushed forward to catch her but she righted herself before he completed his journey, holding up her hands in a staying gesture.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, eyes frantically raking across her front.

She shook her head, pressing a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thrum of her heart. “Nothing.”

She blinked slowly, thoughts mulish, the euphoria fading as quickly as it came, settling into a distant purr at the back of her skull. Or perhaps it was Crookshanks. She glanced down, meeting his gleaming gaze. His tail flicked from side to side, whiskers twitching as he watched her steadily.

“I feel…” She glanced up once more, vision sharper than moments before, Harry’s eyes such a vibrant green she could practically see the jungle contained within. “Great.”

He lifted a brow. “Great? You almost passed out.”

She rolled her eyes, spinning on her heel, movements fluid and graceful. “You’re as bad as Malfoy.”

Harry reared back. “Low blow.”

She smirked, pausing in the bathroom doorway and glancing over her shoulder. “I’m _fine_ , Harry, and I need to start getting ready.”

She could see the wheels turning behind his gaze, another argument rapidly taking shape. She braced for battle, feeling more alert and energetic than she had in years. But he relented, shoulders lowering, voice tinged with reluctance.

“I’ll make some breakfast.”

She smiled, grateful for the reprieve. “Thank you.”

Hermione watched him head for the door and felt something inside her fall away. She dashed forward without conscious thought, grabbing his arm and halting his retreat. He spun quickly, eyes wide as she threw her arms around his middle, pressing her face into his chest.

“It’ll be okay, Harry,” she muttered into his shirt, eyes squeezed tight. “I promise, if anything changes, I’ll come right back.”

She heard him swallow, felt his heavy sigh, and then his arms wrapped around her back.

“I know. I trust you.”

She nodded, pulling back slowly to meet his gaze before rising up, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. He blinked, startled by the gesture, only to chuckle softly, rubbing the spot her lips had touched.

“You just earned yourself pancakes,” he said with a wink, backing towards the doorway.

“I’d like mine without beans, please.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

He disappeared around the corner with a wide grin, footsteps fading a moment later. She entered the bathroom at last, Crookshanks slipping through the narrow gap as she closed the door, jovial giddiness rapidly dissipating, the sudden fluctuations in her mood deeply unsettling. She pressed her forehead against the wood, breathing deeply as Crookshanks rubbed against her ankles, sensing her distress.

She pivoted towards the sink and swallowed heavily, chancing an upward glance, muscles rigid with anticipation. The mirror was stained black around the edges but revealed no hovering figure at her back.

She stepped closer, studying her reflection, noticing her complexion appeared brighter than usual, unexpected in light of so much restless slumber. And her eyes seemed… different. Barely so, but the deviation was noticeable, flecks of gold in the irises lightening them half a shade. The sight reminded her of the woman from her dream, the intensity of her stare, its supernatural gleam.

She exhaled slowly, steam fogging the glass as the words came back to her in a rush, the smooth flow of the deep voice echoing through her mind again and again, the translation taking shape as easily as her next breath.

_“Sigat ri:ac wā’baw kūmat.”_

“Daughter of the Sun,” Hermione whispered aloud, holding her gaze in the mirror. “The time has come.”

* * *

Theo groaned into the darkness, wondering what had happened to the lights, only for red to flood his vision, deepening with every throb of his pulse. Pain erupted along his side, sharp and insistent, a gentle reminder he wasn’t dead. Yet.

A noise drew his focus, a soft shuffle, and it was then he realized his eyes were in fact closed. He opened them, instantly regretting the decision. Green glared down from the standing lamps on either side, blinding in intensity. He turned away from the onslaught, rolling onto his back and blinking up at a dark mass hovering above, watching with dumbfounded fascination as it floated sideways, out of his field of vision.

He rubbed his eyes, awareness slowly gaining momentum until he realized he was horizontal, lying atop a hard, unforgiving surface. And most pertinently, his head hurt like fuck.

The dark mass returned, a swaying shadow blocking out the light. He glanced around, cringing with the effort, spotting the bottom portion of a metal table and the busted wheels of a stool.

_Why am I on the—_

And then, all at once, the memories came flooding back in suffocating rush, pressing on his lungs and crushing him from the inside. He snapped upright, only to realize a moment too late he was situated just beside the metal slab. His skull collided off the edge with a bang, sending him sprawling back once more.

“Ah! Fuck!”

The dark mass shuffled closer.

Theo turned his head on instinct, staring at a pair of pale, varicose-ridden feet as he rubbed the rapidly swelling knot on his head. Silence encased the lab, eerie and absolute. And then the feet started forward, closing in. He nearly gagged with terror, pushing back, sliding awkwardly across the floor until a shelf halted his retreat.

He sat upright a second time, vision swimming as his gaze lifted, meeting a deathly pale face. She watched him with a curious expression, if corpses could look curious, stopping her approach with a few feet to spare. Oh, and she was still startling naked.

His mind reeled.

And then he gulped, senses returning at last.

“It’s alright,” he uttered hastily, mostly for his own assurance, grabbing the edge of the shelf and pushing to his feet.

She gasped at the movement, stepping back.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, raising both palms and scrambling for some semblance of coherent thought. “My name is Theo, I…”

Jesus Christ, where to start?

Perhaps it was best to figure out where she left off.

“Do you—” _Stick with the basics_. “Do you know your name?”

Her clouded eyes tracked slowly across his face. Theo held his breath, waiting, but her blue lips remained sealed. He wondered how much the virus was capable of reanimating. She’d been dead for three days, perhaps the damage to her cognitive function was too extensive.

But then—

“W-Where…” Her voice was low, rusty from disuse, throat working convulsively as though she’d forgotten how to use the muscle. “Where… am…”

She released him from her penetrating gaze to glance around, confusion written across every line of her face. Theo nearly tipped sideways with shock. She could speak, intelligently no less. A fucking miracle.

Or perhaps the cruelest curse of all.

Then he processed her question and the full weight of his situation came crashing over his head.

“You’re—”

_A reanimated corpse._

He shook his head, trying again.

“You’re—”

_A reanimated corpse._

He closed his eyes. _Fucking imbecile!_

“Safe,” he settled on at last, lids parting. The room was covered in equipment, heaping piles of useless shit that felt utterly cumbersome at the moment. He couldn’t very well claim they were standing in a church. “This is my laboratory.”

He paused, waiting for her reaction, but her eyes remained blank, face void of any discernible expression. And then a slight tremor raced through her frame, drawing his gaze with it. He tensed at her nudity, a detail easily overlooked in all the ensuing chaos. He searched the floor, spotting the sheet discarded in a twisted heap beside the table. He started towards it, causing her to shuffle back once more, eyes widening.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, raising his hands as he edged towards the fabric, making a concerted effort to keep his eyes above her chin.

He'd studied her body with textbook precision when she had been laid out on his slab, cataloging every injury, combing every bit of surface area for trauma. But she hadn’t been a person then, merely a cadaver, a commodity. He wasn’t certain she was a person now, or if what she was even had a name. But she was certainly something more than dead, which made staring upon her nudity a gross violation in his eyes.

He grabbed the sheet, holding it towards her. She made no move to take it, seemingly confused by the offering. He sighed, not wanting to scare her any further by approaching.

“Please, take this.”

She continued to stare blankly.

“For warmth,” he added, hoping she’d understand the meaning.

A beat. She shuffled forward at last, taking the corner of the fabric and tugging it out of his grasp, holding it before her face and studying the folds. Theo shook his head, taking a deep breath and stepping closer.

“Here, let me.”

He took the sheet back, shaking it open and wrapping it around her shoulders, pulling the material closed across her front. He moved back as soon as the task was complete, eager to put as much distance between them as possible. But her haunted gaze flickered up, holding him captive in its terrible thrall. He had no goddamn idea how to proceed, if any of this was even real.

“Do—” His eyes drifted to her bruised neck. “Are you in pain?”

She tilted her head, brow creasing. “Pain?”

“Yes, does anything—” He exhaled through his nose, glancing around, desperate for any means of assistance. “Perhaps you should sit.”

He reached for the nearest stool, dragging it closer and standing back. She remained frozen, a floating head emanating from the pale folds swaddling her narrow form. He hesitated, watching her sway in place before gathering enough courage to step forward and gently grasp her arm through the fabric, navigating her onto the seat.

“Can I…” He scratched the back of his neck, hovering awkwardly. “... get you anything?”

She gazed up. “Who are you?”

Her voice was so clear, so certain it sent him swaying back. He lost his train of thought, nearly forgetting his name in the process.

“I’m Theodore.” He blinked, wondering why he felt compelled to deliver such a formal response, as though he was twelve years old and answering the teacher.

She continued to study her surroundings, eyes lingering on the microscope. “Where am I?”

“You’re… in my lab.” He eyed her carefully. “In New York,” he added, wondering if she was looking for another response.

Her eyes continued to drift aimlessly. “Who are you?”

Theo deflated, whatever strange emotion that had taken root within him draining out through his feet. Short term memory. A sign of brain trauma.

_Brain trauma? She’s fucking dead._

He carded a hand through his hair, exhausted. “I’m Theo. And you’re safe here.”

“Safe?” Grey clouds swirled in her eyes, flat and lifeless.

“Safe,” he whispered, feeling a mounting pressure at the base of his skull. “Everything will be alright.”

_I’m absolutely fucked._

* * *

Hermione opened the door, pulling her coat tight against the crisp November chill. The more her morning progressed the more energized she felt, alert and buzzing without the aid of caffeine. She trotted down the steps and across the cobblestone, eager to get to the Met, to get her hands on the remaining text. But first, she had to visit Theo. The jar sat heavy in her bag, bundled thick, the soft mass hitting her thigh with every step.

She pushed open the gate, batting aside clinging ivy and stepping through, the hinges groaning loudly. She released a huff of exertion, closing it at her back and spinning for the sidewalk— only to gasp, nearly colliding with a hovering figure.

“Mr. Slughorn!” She pressed a hand to her chest and backed into the gate, twisting vines pulling strands of her hair loose from the less-than-pristine chignon she’d painstakingly created.

The elderly man laughed heartily, holding up both hands. “Sorry, my dear! Didn’t mean to give you a fright! And please, I insist you call me Horace.”

Hermione smiled, pulling away from the curving bars and adjusting her bag over front. “Horace. Good morning. It’s lovely to see you.”

“You as well! I was so ecstatic about your arrival, so soon after Harry’s marvelous homecoming no less. Are you helping him get settled?”

She nodded, eagerly accepting the offered excuse. “Yes. The home sat empty for so long it takes ever pair of hands to bring it to rights.”

“I can only imagine.” His smile pulled so taut she was certain the skin would tear. “And your father is staying with you?”

Hermione traced the seam of her bag, absently twisting at the strap. “Yes, he is.”

His expression flickered. She braced for the question she knew would come next.

“And how is Richard these days?”

She’d been expecting it, yet she still had to fight back a grimace. “He…” How does one summarize complete and total devastation? “We take it one day at a time.”

His grin faded, visage turning shadowed and somber. “So tragic, such a brilliant man. All that knowledge lost, like burning down the Library of Alexandria all over again.”

Her chest tightened. _Time to wrap this cheerful reunion in a ribbon and send it down the chute_. She cleared her throat. "It was good to see you, Mr. Slughorn—"

“Horace.”

She forced a polite smile, desperate for an out and willing to punch him in the throat to get it.

“Horace. I hate to dash but I’m running late for work—”

“Still at the Met?”

She blinked, bag weighing twice as heavy on her shoulder for some reason. “Yes.”

His smile returned, as did his astute gaze, scanning her face with disturbing precision. “Just as brilliant as your father. Your mother would be so very proud of you.”

Her pulse fluttered. _It’s too early for this._

“That is very kind to say. Thank you, Mr—”

His eyes flared wide, lips parting.

“Horace,” she corrected quickly, slipping past his form and edging along the sidewalk. “Have a wonderful day.”

“You as well, my dear!”

 _Thank you, God_. She turned, taking two steps towards blissful freedom.

“One more thing, Ms. Granger.”

Hermione stiffened, as disturbed by the formal title as his sudden change in tone. His voice was deeper, slower, foreign yet familiar. She turned with great reluctance, shoulders tightening.

His face appeared blank, eyes clouded and matte as he reached into his vest, slowly extracting a white envelope. Hermione blinked, staring at the item with a gnawing sense of dread. The missive was sealed, the cover blank, glaringly so.

“It won’t bite,” he said with a cruel smirk that looked terrible misplaced on his perpetually cheerful face.

She held her breath and reached out with a trembling hand, taking the edge of the envelope between two fingers, terrified it would, in fact, take a chunk out of her. He held onto his end, holding her gaze as a disturbing game of tug-of-war ensued.

“Well played, luv.” His teeth gleamed bright, and for just a moment she saw a set of lethal fangs sparkling in the morning sun. She blinked and they were gone. “But you can’t hide in your fortress forever… your delicate condition won’t allow it.” He released the envelope to her boneless grip. “It’s time we talk.”

She swayed in place, certain her heart would burst from her chest at any moment.

A car drove by, brakes screeching loudly as it stopped at the intersection. Slughorn blinked, stumbling in place.

“Oh my…” He pressed a hand to his temple, glancing around before gazing at Hermione with flushed cheeks. “How strange.”

She swallowed thickly, the envelope vibrating in her hand. “Are you alright, Horace?”

“Oh… yes, dear. Just a dizzy spell.” He smiled weakly, stepping off the curb. “I think I’ve overtaxed myself this morning. Nothing a good cup of tea won’t fix. I’m afraid I’ll have to bid you ado.”

She watched him cross the street, perplexed at the bizarre role reversal. She’d never seen the man so eager to depart a conversation in all her life.

“Farewell, dear,” he called over his shoulder, practically sprinting for his house.

“Farewell,” she whispered, mind blank with the force of her shock.

She gazed down at the ominous envelope in her grasp, wondering what new horror the evil bastard had in store for her now.

* * *

Bella tilted her head, the blunt edge of her hair grazing the tops of her bare shoulders as she adjusted the anemone in its vase, purple petals littering the table and floor.

“Waverly,” she stated simply, slowly rotating the crystal, searching for any sparsity in her design. “How very fascinating. I wonder what secret is hiding away in Greenwich. Did you sense anything of note?”

Rodolphus leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. “No.”

“Still sore that Braxy manhandled you?” She smirked, arching a dark brow. “Or are you upset that you enjoyed it?”

He rolled his eyes, glancing away. “I’m not upset.”

“Hm.” She grabbed another fresh cut bloom off the stack. “Do you know why they call him the General?”

He began rolling up his sleeves, revealing a pair of muscular forearms. “I’ve heard rumors.”

She smiled, carefully sliding the stem into the neck of the vase. “Rumors are a powerful magic. Or perhaps _curse_ is apter a description. A dark stain seeping into the very soul of a man." She stepped back from the table, studying her creation. "We must find out who resides at 125 Waverly.”

“I already did.”

She blinked, turning to face him with another stem in hand. “You did your homework?” She grinned proudly. “Well then, aren’t you the teacher’s pet.”

“Do I get a reward?” His voice lowered, eyes narrowing upon her hips.

“It depends on what you tell me.”

He sighed, attention snapping up. “The residence is owned by Richard Granger. His wife was removed from the deed upon her death, at which time his daughter was added.”

She idly traced the edge of a satin petal. “And what do we know about Richard?”

“He was a Harvard professor, transferred to Columbia and retired with tenor.”

She tore it free from the bloom, rolling it between her fingertips. “A clever man. I _adore_ clever men.” Dye seeped from the petal like blood, staining her skin. “What else did you learn, my clever Knight?”

Rodolphus smirked, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees. “He’s dying.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“He has Alzheimer's.”

Her dark gaze flickered up, wilted petal dropping to her feet. “Is that so?” She leaned against the table, tapping the bloom against the side of her thigh. “How very interesting… but perhaps not as interesting as his daughter. Tell me about her.”

Rodolphus stood from his chair, shoulders drawing wide. “Her name is Hermione.”

 _Hermione_. So uncommon. A marvelous start.

She eyed him intently. “And?”

His smile radiated with eager anticipation. “She’s an Egyptologist… for the _Met_.”

Bella inhaled slowly, deeply, relishing the burn within her lungs. “Is that right?” Red seeped into her eyes, wrapping her dark irises in a crimson band.

His grin deepened. “It is.”

“My, my. What a _splendid_ coincidence.” She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “You did marvelous, my dear.” His pupils expanded, unwavering in their focus as she traced the edge of his lips with the anemone. “But now I think it’s time to call upon my favorite Daywalker.”

His eyes flashed. “You don’t need him. I’ll follow the girl, bring her to you—”

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, darling, but some tasks are better executed in daylight hours. We can’t be clandestine _all_ of the time… it dulls the effect when we’re actually being naughty.”

His jaw tensed, body rigid as stone.

“Besides,” she continued, stepping away with a glimmer in her eye. “You have the most important task of all. Our little ones will be ready to fly the nest any day now. You must look after them like a good father.”

“Give them to Rab.”

“Rabastan is too… _Rabastan_. I only trust the task to you.”

His sigh was music to her ears.

“As you wish.”

She laughed, stopping behind the table and discarding the wilted flower into the bin. “A parent’s work is never done.” She studied the oversized bouquet before her, adjusting stems and leaves as she went. “I can hear one of our pride and joy in the hallway as we speak.”

Rodolphus shook his head, crossing his arms once more. “She never sits still. Or listens.”

Bella laughed throatily, undeterred in her task. “That’s why I wanted her.” She reached for the next flower in the pile. “Bring them both in.”

* * *

Ginny bit her lip, ear pressed flat to the wood, eyes narrowed in concentration. But all she heard was a faint murmur from the other side, too muted to make out.

“If you can’t hear someone approach from behind you stand no chance of hearing through a reinforced door.”

She jolted hard, whirling around, cheeks flushed. “I thought super hearing was one of the perks.”

“There are no perks,” he stated, staring down at her like she was an idiot. “You’ll learn that soon enough.”

She tossed her head with a scoff, crossing her arms. “Don’t you get bored of all this self-loathing drivel?”

“I’ve no time for self-loathing, I’m too busy wrangling you lot.” He directed his scowl at the door. “Which is _supposed_ to be my brother’s job.” He ground his teeth, raising his voice. “Hear that? One of your dogs is loose.”

Her hands fell, curling into claws at her sides. “I’m free to come and go as I please, Bella told me so herself.”

The corner of his mouth turned up with mocking derision. “Oh, aren't you special.”

Heat rose in her neck, expelling like a steam whistle through her ears. She stomped a foot, gearing up for an epic screaming match when the door at their side parted wide.

Rodolphus filled the entire frame, glancing between them with a raised brow. “Ginevra."

She settled on her heels, rolling her shoulders back and lifting her chin, hoping to emulate something along the lines of mature. But her pose seemed to amuse more than impress him. His eyes darted to his brother next.

“Rabastan. I was looking for you earlier.” He tilted his head, leaning into the frame. “Any idea how the phonograph ended up in seven pieces?”

Rabastan raised a brow. “That’s strange. I counted eight.”

“He had a tantrum,” Ginny supplied happily.

He snarled down at her. “Someone needs to teach this one her place.”

“And that someone is not you,” Rodolphus stated calmly.

Rabastan rolled his eyes, stepping back. “I'm off duty. Don’t bother me until sunset.”

“Nice try.” Rodolphus stood away from the frame, pushing the door wide. “You’ve been summoned.”

Rabastan seemed to hesitate. Ginny held her breath, wondering what he'd do, whether he had the nerve to defy his Maker as he defied everything else. But after another moment of tense debate, he squared his shoulders and marched forward, forcefully knocking against his brother as he entered the room.

Rodolphus took the slight in stride, smirking down at her as she shifted awkwardly. “You too, little one.”

She grinned from ear to ear, bouncing onto the balls of her feet and leaping over the threshold. He chuckled lowly, shaking his head and closing the door at their backs.

Ginny skid to a stop at the center of the room, doing a full twirl as she took in the magnificent sight. She’d explored every unlocked room the mansion had to offer, but this one had always been off-limits. She could see why. Her mother would have never let her destructive daughter into such a fragile space, every square inch an accident waiting to happen. The walls were lined with shelves from floor to tall ceiling, overrun with glittering antiques and baubles. The marble floor gleamed bright, as did the oversized vases scattered intermittently throughout, each bursting with an ornate bouquet, glass reflecting the crystal chandelier above.

Breath caught in her lungs, choking her with awe. And then her eyes were drawn to movement along the far wall. Her Mistress stood behind an ivory table, magnetic in her pull, calling to the very blood in Ginny’s veins. Ginny took a step towards her, unaware of her movements, the trance broken only when Rabastan spoke, hands folded behind his back from where he stood a few yards away, looking supremely put out.

“I’ll buy a new phonograph.”

Bella laughed, clipping the end of a stem with razor-tipped shears. "Yes, you will. But first, you'll pay another visit to the docks."

He stiffened, eyes flickering to Ginny, then to his brother, the latter standing sentinel at the door. “Perhaps we should discuss this in private.”

"We are in private," Bella stated simply, carefully inserting the flower into the vase. "Ginevra is one of us." She glanced up, meeting Ginny's eager eye at last. "Aren't you, my love?"

Ginny nodded without hesitation, chest tightening under the woman’s undivided focus. “Yes, my Queen.”

Rabastan rolled his eyes. “She’s not even through with her fucking transition.”

“Language, pet.” Bella turned her attention back to the vase before her, bursting with color and fragrance. “And your concern is mere semantics. She survived the initial phase, another feeding and she’ll be right as rain.” She glanced up, winking at her young charge. Ginny preened.

Rabstan watched the exchange with a tightening scowl. “In that case why not invite her to the next Council meeting?”

“Do I detect a note of bitterness?” Bella asked sweetly, voice edged in poison.

He glanced away, shoulders lowering as he dragged a hand through his hair, sleeve riding high to reveal a tattoo along his forearm, a symbol Ginny didn’t recognize.

“Not at all.”

Bella eyed him a moment longer, eyes glimmering. “Good. As I was saying, I want you to pay another visit to the shipyard. Tonight.”

His jaw ticked. “Are you certain that—” A shadow passed across her features. He quickly rephrased. “Perhaps it’s too soon after our last mission. Riddle may suspect you.”

“He always suspects me. Family squabbles aside, it is my intention to draw his focus. A distracted man is a manageable man, Tommy included, no matter how much he likes to pretend he’s a God.”

He clasped his hands behind his back once more, standing like a soldier. The pose reminded Ginny of Bill, the way he held himself after returning home from boot camp, always alert, even at the dinner table. The memory was a dagger through the heart, piercing to her core.

“I’ll see to it,” Rabastan replied, voice flat and eyes void of the heat she’d grown so accustomed to seeing.

“I know that you will,” Bella said. “I also know you’ll bring back dinner for your adoring nieces and nephews, doting uncle that you are.”

He grimaced. “Surely Rodolphus can—”

“Your brother will be overseeing the last of the transitions. This is a task for my Black Knight.”

He exhaled through his nose, chin lifting. “Lucky me.”

She smirked. “Bring back enough for everyone, I’ve no time for a mutiny.”

“And how do you propose I execute such a task, my Queen? Only so many bodies fit inside the trunk.”

Ginny blanched, swaying in place as she glanced sharply at his profile.

Bella tisked, cutting the head off a red rose. “ _Such_ a comedian. You’ll visit Mungo’s, silly boy. One of our Daywalkers is expecting you.”

He seethed in tense silence, frame radiating a powerful energy that made Ginny’s skin crawl. Bella’s eyes flickered up.

“Problem?”

The muscles in his jaw clenched tight. “No.”

She grinned, ruby lips gleaming in the sparkling lights. “Excellent.” And then her dark gaze drifted, sinister pleasure deepening. “Take Ginevra with you.”

Ginny’s eyes widened, as did his, though their expressions couldn’t have been more different.

“She’s not ready—”

“I’m ready!”

Bella laughed as Rabastan’s knuckles cracked at his sides. “It’s decided then. You’ll have the help you’re obviously so desperate for while furthering her training.” She held his incensed gaze in challenge. “I trust you’ll return her home, safe and sound.”

His chest heaved, pissed beyond words.

“Splendid,” Bella chimed, holding Ginny immobile in her sights once more. “Welcome to the family, darling.”

* * *

Harry rose from the floor, raking his gaze over the revised map, lingering on the sections they had yet to cover. He stepped over the morning’s paper, pausing before the dresser and collecting his wallet, checking his remaining cash. Enough for at least a hundred more copies. Good.

He tucked the square of leather into his back pocket, edging around his workstation and slipping into the hall. He started to close the door only to glance up, staring at the ominous barrier across the corridor, sealed for many long years.

But this morning it stood ajar.

Harry shut his door with a deafening click, pulse thrumming. He glanced down the hall, confused, terrified, and then a faint shuffle sounded from within the master bedroom, drawing his gaze forward.

He took a slow step, raising his hand, hesitating. A floorboard creaked from within. Harry pushed the door open the rest of the way, breathless and braced for whatever madness dwell inside. But all that met his eye was sunlight and dust, the combination overlaying every surface in view. He stared at the open curtains. They’d been drawn.

Hadn't they?

_Mione would never step foot inside this room. It must have been Richard… how did he get the key?_

Harry shook his head, fist tightening as he swayed before the threshold.

_Eight footsteps. Eight footsteps to the window, maximum. Close the curtains, board up the door and be done with it._

If only setting the room on fire was an option.

He closed his eyes, taking a slow breath before heading inside, maneuvering halfway across the rug until his hip collided with the edge of a decorative table, forcing his lids open.

_It’s alright. Just don’t look up._

_It’s not real if you don’t look up._

His eyes burned with the force of staring directly ahead. He strode to the window, catching himself against the frame. The glass was fogged by dust and age, distorting the images on the other side like a funhouse mirror. He reached for the curtain, grabbing a handful of the burgundy fabric.

_“Sirius!”_

Harry reared back, chest spasming, cringing as the memory cut a fatal path throw his chest, sharp as a bullet, carving out muscle and tendon and bone before launching free in a river of blood, images blossoming to life well beyond his control.

“What are you—”

“Get out of here!” His godfather shouted, spinning to face the doorway.

“Put it down!”

“Stay back, Harry!”

“Sirius, please—”

“I’m so sorry, kid.” Sirius raised a staying hand, backing towards the window. “You were never meant to be a part of this.”

Harry shook his head, stepping slowly inside the bedroom, eyes fastened to the gleaming pistol in his Godfather’s right hand. “You don’t have to be sorry, just put the gun down—”

“This is the only way to stop it, the only way it can end.”

“Sirius.” Harry’s entire body trembled as he edged further inside, movements slow and strenuous. “Look at me. I can help you—”

“No one can help me.” Sirius shook his head, eyes gleaming manically. “No one.” He set his jaw, wiry beard so long it touched his jutting collarbones. “I don’t want you to see this, you need to leave—”

“I’m not going anywhere!” Harry screamed, charging forward at last, taking his chance.

Sirius met him halfway, catching him across the middle with shocking speed and strength, his emaciated frame hard as stone. Harry choked on his breath, struggled for the gun, heels dragging across the carpet as he was forced back. His shoulder clipped the frame as he was launched from the room with such force he collided with the opposite wall, falling in a gasping heap. Sirius growled like a feral animal, slamming the door and rattling the pictures strung along the hall.

Harry collected his bearings, launching to his feet and grabbing the locked handle, pulling with all his strength.

“No!” He beat his fists against the wood. “Sirius! Open the goddamn door!” He heard shuffling from within, the sound of the drapes being pulled. “Please don’t do this! Don’t leave me!” He began to sob, broken whines emitting as pounded the wood relentlessly, arms throbbing with the impact, flesh swollen and bruised. “Don’t leave!” He sank to his knees, forehead falling against the door like a dead weight, tears clouding his vision. “Please don’t go!”

"I love you, Harry." The voice was distant, yet startling clear, filling his head completely.

“Sirius!”

“You’ll be safe now.”

The gunshot ripped apart the walls, shook the floors and cracked the foundation, radiating through every bone in Harry’s body. He screamed, clawing at the bottom of the door before curling in on himself, sobbing into the hardwood.

Harry dry heaved as the memory released him from its leathery clutches, stumbling to the bed in a miserable daze. He caught himself against the side of the mattress, blinking slowly, a distance rumble at the base of his skull gaining momentum—

A hand grasped his shoulder.

Harry gasped, spinning quickly with a raised fist, face glistening with sweat and tears.

Richard stood before him, eyes bright and clear, unnervingly so. “It’s not your fault,” he said, voice level and smooth.

Harry drew back, searching the man’s face as he held his gaze, expression unreadable yet somehow familiar, causing the rumble to deepen, vibrating through Harry's chest, between each rib. Richard tilted his head, a shadow passing across his visage, encasing his entire being for the space of a heartbeat. And then the moment passed. Richard blinked, eyes clouding over as his shoulders sloped down, fingers limp at his sides. He glanced around briefly, then turned for the window, shuffling to the fogged pane.

Harry shook his head, leaning over to cover his face with both hands, talking himself out of a full-blown panic attack. He counted his breaths, struggling to remember the exercises he'd learned on the floor of the therapist's office after his parents' deaths. But try as he might, he couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting up up up, fastening to the ceiling at long last.

Harry gazed upon the rust-colored splatter, still visible through countless scrubbings, as though the blood had seeped into the very pores of the house. The longer he stared the more hazed his surrounding became, until nothing in the universe existed but that patch of ceiling, painted with his Godfather’s remains.

* * *

Hermione entered the Met with a heavy step, weighed down by the jar in her bag and the unopened letter in her pocket. She’d decided to bring the former to Theo during her lunch hour, her priorities rapidly shifting in light of this morning’s frightening encounter. She needed to get her hands on the final translation, needed to search for one last clue as to what the hell was happening, why Riddle was so eager to possess the artifact… and her along with it.

She started across the tile with single-minded determination, steering for the bathroom, deciding it the safest spot to read the letter in privacy. Lord only knew what it contained, and she wasn’t keen to find out with an audience in her midst.

She made it half-way across the lobby when she felt it.

An electrical current across her skin, starting at her neck and rippling down her spine, causing the fine hairs along her arms and nape stand on end, followed by a faint buzzing before her ears popped, the world turning muffled, underwater.

“Oh, here she is now. Ms. Granger!”

Hermione stopped, rocking in place before forcing her body to turn. Penelope sat behind her desk, shoulders level and hands folded in a pristinely professional repose, though her eyes gleamed bright, cheeks flushed as she gazed upon the man facing her, tall and broad and dark.

His long hair was swept back, each silken strand perfectly aligned. Hermione felt her own body shift as she stared upon the long line of his back through the trenchcoat, sensing someone of means and power in her midst. Penelope continued to stare upon him as she addressed Hermione.

“This gentleman has a question about the upcoming exhibit.”

He pushed away from the desk, turning at last. Hermione felt her pulse quicken as her worst fears were confirmed. His face matched the rest of him, devastatingly handsome. She was getting quite tired of devastatingly handsome men, each proving far more troublesome than they were worth.

His eyes were bathed in a deep golden hue, almost unnaturally so, teeth straight and white as he directed the full intensity of his smile upon her while his unnerving gaze traced the lines of her body with blatant male appreciation. She fought the urge to squirm, unsettled by his examination, the casualness of it, as though she were part of a collection hanging on the museum wall.

“Ms. Granger, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he finally uttered, voice a rumbling purr as he met her gaze. “I see I’ve caught you on your way in. I hope I'm not keeping you from an appointment.”

“Not at all.” She fought to keep her heels rooted in place as he started forward. Penelope tilted her head, staring at his backside. “How can I help you?”

His smile deepened, revealing the faint hint of a dimple on his left cheek. "Blaise Zabini."

He extended his hand politely. Hermione tensed, staring upon the offering, flashing back to the doorway of her home. Riddle stood before her, adorned in his dark tailored suit, tall and beautiful and deadly, hand outstretched in polite greeting as his eyes penetrated her to the core.

She inhaled slowly, pulling free of the haunting reverie to accept the stranger’s offering, shaking quickly before releasing his warm palm, fingers curling at her side.

“Mr. Zabini. You had a question for me?”

His smile dazzled as he reached into his coat, extracting something small and white. A business card. He held it out. “I own a company specializing in art photography.”

She accepted the card, happily studying the front in lieu of staring into his golden eyes. The paper was crisp and textured, creamy to the touch, cool ivory with elegant black script. Simple and stylish, yet clearly expensive. Just like its owner.

“We partner closely with a number of private publications,” he continued, drawing her gaze once more. “Including acclaimed historian journals.”

His eyes flickered to her lips and back. Her heart skipped. She made a concerted effort not to retreat. His forward mannerisms seemed commonplace, which was perhaps more unsettling than the acts themselves.

“I would love the opportunity to photograph the Exhibit on behalf of the Met. I’ve worked with Museums in the past, they’ve used my images within their own marketing campaigns.”

She lowered her hand, his card pressing the center of her palm, rigid corners cutting into her flesh. “That’s very impressive, Mr. Zabini.”

He smirked. “Please, call me Blaise.”

Hermione blinked.

_“Please, call me Tom.”_

Her shoulders drew wide. “Mr. Zabini is fine.”

He chuckled, seemingly delighted by her less than amicable demeanor. “As you wish, Ms. Granger.”

His voice lowered an octave as he said her name. She finally took a much-needed step back, feeling a strain on her muscles as she did, as though wading through an invisible current. Likely another symptom rearing its ugly head. All the more reason to end this exchange here and now.

“I’ll be sure to extend your information to Mr. Malfoy. He’s in charge of the event.”

His smile flickered at her polite dismissal. “Apologies. Penelope told me you were the Head Egyptologist.”

“I am. Though as the Museum’s only Egyptologist the Head portion of my title is a bit redundant.”

His laughter was deep and rich, soothing and frightening, for it lured her half a step closer beyond her notice.

“Even so,” she continued, not missing a beat. “I am merely responsible for the artifacts themselves, Malfoy oversees all events and vendor selection.”

“There is nothing _mere_ about your job, Ms. Granger. Preserving history is a sacred duty one undertakes for the good of all mankind.”

Hermione opened and closed her mouth, earlier unease starting to unravel beyond her control. “That… sounds like something my father would have said.”

He grinned. “Then it must be true.”

“My father spent the majority of his life buried in myth and legend. He considered truth subjective as history itself.”

His gaze seemed to lighten, the intensity manifesting into a physical touch she felt along her spine, soft fingertips tracing the notches in her vertebrae.

She inhaled sharply, stepping back once more. “Thank you for your interest in our upcoming Exhibit. I’ll provide your card to Malfoy, he’ll be in touch if he has an interest in your services.”

He nodded, handsome featured tinged with amusement, as though she’d delivered a quip. “I appreciate it greatly. I do hope to receive a call.” And then he tucked his hands into his coat. “Have a wonderful day, Ms. Granger.”

She swallowed heavily. Thank Christ. “The same to you, Mr. Zabini.”

He backed away slowly, eyes lingering upon her before chuckling softly to himself and turning, casually passing the front desk with a polite nod at Penelope. The young woman waved farewell, perhaps a bit too eagerly, dropping her pen in the process. She blushed profusely, scrambling for the utensil as it rolled across the desk and into her lap.

Hermione shook her head.

_What the hell is happening?_

She glanced around, dazed by her surroundings, the entire morning really, desperately trying to recalibrate.

_What was I doing?_

Her bag seemed to hum at her side, answering her inquiry even as her pocket warmed.

_The letter._

_Start with the letter._

She turned once more, striding for her original destination, the bathroom. It wasn’t the same one she’d had the awful encounter in but the interior looked identical, stirring dread in her gut as she gazed at the sinks, waiting for the faucets to turn themselves on and start spurting blood like demonic fountains.

But she seemed to have the room all to herself, the plumbing blissfully benign. She seized the blessed privacy and pushed open the center stall door, slipping inside and clicking the flimsy lock into place, relief washing overhead like cool water. She took her first full breath since watching Slughorn run away from her like a prisoner escaping the executioner’s block.

She began to reach into her pocket, only to realize she still held Zabini’s card in hand. She blinked, lifting her palm to reexamine the front.

**Zabini Photography and Portraiture**

She turned it over, reading the address and phone number, absently tracing the bottom edges of her teeth with her tongue. Her gums ached. She shook her head, tucking the card into the front compartment of her satchel and reaching into her pocket at last. The moment her fingers made contact with the smooth paper her entire body tensed, relief tortuously short-lived.

She extracted the missive in slow motion, holding it in both hands before her narrowed gaze. As long as she didn’t read it it couldn’t hurt her…

But she _needed_ to read it. Just like she needed to open the godforsaken jar in her office. The urge was overwhelming and she couldn’t deny its silent temptation any longer. With a sharp inhale she turned the envelope over and worked her nails under the seam, attempting to open the flap daintily and managing to shred it to high hell. The scraps fell to her feet as she pulled the letter free, a single sheet folded neatly in thirds.

She released her breath, opening it.

And blinked.

Hermione wasn’t certain what she’d been expecting to find… but this _certainly_ wasn’t it.

Two words, floating at the center of the page in perfect handwriting.

She read them a dozen times over until the letters began to rearrange themselves, the blinding backdrop hazing her vision white. She closed her eyes, crumpling the letter in hand and falling heavily against the stall door.

Well, it seemed her day wasn’t about to take a turn for the better. Which was just as well.

Hermione opened her eyes, reaching for the handle and squaring her shoulders.

It was time to finish this game of cat and mouse once and for all.

* * *

The machinery groaned loudly, gears shifting and grinding, rumbling the floor and shaking the rafters, overhead lights trembling as the motors hissed and whined. A puff of black smoke emitted from the end of an exhaust pipe, blasting Parvati square in the face. She doubled over, coughing into her hand, eyes tearing.

She recovered after a few moments, rising to her full height and glaring at the monstrosity before her.

“Fucking useless piece of—”

The rest of the words were lost to a deafening squeal, the equipment whining loudly as it tried to sputter along. She shook her head, leaning down and switching it off, wiping the sweat from her forehead as she rose.

The bandana tying back her hair back did little to help, her jumpsuit uniform and canvas gloves sweltering. There wasn’t nearly enough ventilation on the floor, steam and smoke clouding her vision at every turn as she stumbled her way to the assembly line, looking for her wrench when she heard a heavy cough from the other end.

Parvati stepped back, wiping sweat from her eyes for the second time in as many minutes, searching out the familiar source. She spotted the woman at last, silhouette hunched over and masked in steam.

“Shit,” Parvati mumbled, watching her stumble back and collide with the railing. Parvati swallowed heavily, darting forward.

“Alicia!” She called, then doubled her pace as she watched her grip the handrail and sink to her knees, coughing uncontrollably all the while.

Parvati reached her at last, dropping to her side and grasping her jerking shoulder. Alicia tried to wave her off, gasping between each word. “I’m…” a wheezing breath “Fine…” Tears streamed from her eyes, voice thin.

Parvati shook her head. “No, you aren't.”

“Parv—”

“Come on.”

Parvati weaved her arm around her friend’s waist, hauling them both up with a groan. She began directing a path to the stairs, Alicia listing heavily against her side, coughing and sputtering. Parvati gripped the handrail tight, carefully steadying their descent to the main floor. They were halfway down when Alicia was overcome by a new onslaught, elbowing Parvati aside in order to sit on the step, doubling over in a wheezing fit.

Parvati dropped beside her, eyes hard-set. “Which pocket?”

Alicia gestured weakly to her left side. Parvati removed her glove and reached across the woman’s lap, sticking her hand into her uniform and fishing for the cylinder. Alicia nearly bucked her off, coughing so hard she shook the entire flimsy staircase. Parvati found the item at last, pulling it free and shaking it hard, tugging Alicia’s hands from her mouth as she shoved the inhaler between her lips, pushing down on the depressor.

Alicia grabbed the inhaler with trembling hands, sucking in air greedily as she pushed it a second time herself. Parvati swallowed, tasting chemicals on the back of her throat and rubbing small circles into her friend’s back. A few moments passed, machinery screaming all around them, voices shouting over the fray, until finally, Alicia sagged back, breathing paced and strained, face glistening with tears and sweat.

“I’m okay, Parvati.” She folded her arms across her middle, inhaler clenched tightly in her gloved fist. “I already took my break, if Yaxley catches me off my station he’ll can me.”

“Then you’ll sue the bastard for nearly killing you, along with poisoning the rest of us.”

Alicia smiled miserably, eyes heavy with exhaustion. “Yeah, that’ll go over like a lead balloon. No one wins those cases, Parv. Besides, where the hell am I gonna get money for a decent lawyer?” She coughed into her elbow, swallowing thickly. “I can barely afford my meds.”

Parvati scowled, outraged by the injustice, but before she could utter a response another voice boomed down from above, grating and incensed.

“What is this, social hour? Y'all hosting a knitting circle on the stairs?”

Alicia grimaced, standing quickly. Parvati practically foamed at the mouth.

“Blow it out yours, Loretta! You hear me bitching about the fifteen smoking breaks you take an hour?”

Their team lead glared daggers, hands perched on her hips. "Get back to your station, smartass."

A billowing cloud of toxic gas emitted from below, traveling through the grate in the stairs like steam from a gutter. Alicia began to cough anew, something catching in her throat. She reached into her pocket and extracted a handkerchief, spitting up grey and pink phlegm.

The older woman cringed. “Christ, Spinnet! I think you coughed up a lung.”

“She wouldn’t be the first,” Parvati snapped. “You’ll have to shut down the entire factory if she collapses. That means an investigation. How do you think Yaxley will like that?”

Lorretta’s eyes narrowed, flickering between them. “Five minutes. Get her some water, then get your skinny asses _back_ to your goddamn stations. We all have a job to do. If you’re too weak to perform, get the fuck out.”

Without further ado, the woman stepped back onto the catwalk and marched off, onto the next station, eager to bark orders at someone else.

Parvati watched her disappear around the corner, grinding her teeth. “Bitch.”

Alicia folded the fabric, shoving it back into her pocket and taking a shaky breath. “Thanks, Parv, but I got it from here.”

Parvati directed her narrowed gaze onto her friend. “The last time you said that I found you nearly passed out in the parts room.”

“I didn’t have my meds that day.”

“Your meds can’t compete with all the shit you’re breathing in. It’s a miracle we don’t all have emphysema.”

Parvati took her arm once more, helping her down the remaining steps and through another cloud of steam, dense and suffocating. They emerged a few hurried steps later, passing stations and workers in a blur before finally reaching the hallway at back, pushing open the metal door at the end and emerging in the tiny break room.

An industrial fan blew down stale heat from the ceiling, a blissful reprieve from the stagnate inferno of the factory floor. A cooler stood in the corner, the water room temperature and old-tasting, but at the present moment, it was a shimmering oasis in the desert.

Alicia stumbled to a chair and sat heavily, leaning against the small plastic table as Parvati pulled a paper cup from the dispenser, turning the dial.

“This job is killing you, Ali.”

“We all gotta die sometime,” the woman replied, closing her eyes and tipping her head back, allowing the fan to blow strands of hair from her sweat-slicked forehead. “Meanwhile, there’s rent to pay.”

Parvati crossed to her side, holding out the cup. “I thought Angie was getting you a job at her office?”

“They’re on a hiring freeze, same as everyone else.” Alicia accepted the offering with a grateful nod, taking a heavy gulp before continuing. “Besides, her job is just as dangerous.”

Parvati arched a brow, pulling out the adjacent chair and sitting. “Answering phones at a dental office is more dangerous than operating unlicensed machinery?”

“She got attacked.”

Parvati stiffened, knee hitting the table leg as she turned. “ _What_? When?”

“The other night, just a few blocks from the office.”

“Oh my god. Did…”

Alicia shook her head, taking another sip. “She’s okay. For the most part. Perverts tried to rape her but she got away in time. Still, they roughed her up, busted her lip and blackened her eye.”

_Perverts tried to rape her…_

Parvati leaned in, shoulder blades drawing tight. "How many men?" Alicia blinked, opening her mouth, but Parvati continued before she could respond. "What street? Did they try taking her to another location or—"

“I don’t know anything more. Ang was pretty vague on the details, I think she’s repressed most of it. Couldn’t even remember how she got away.” Alicia traced the rim of the cup with a fingertip. “But now she refuses to walk home alone, especially at night. She’s thinking of quitting if they won’t change her hours. Christ, she’ll probably end up here with us.”

Parvati fell back, running a hand over her face. "There's no getting ahead, is there? We're just picking our poison." She closed her eyes, folding her arms over the table and burying her head.

Alicia watched her curiously. “What’s wrong?”

A long beat. Parvati debated what to say, hesitant to open the wound in the break room of all places. But after another moment she relented, sitting up. The more people she told the better, who knew where the breakthrough lead would come from.

“Lavender is missing.”

Alicia nearly dropped the cup. “Missing? Like _missing_ missing?”

“Like missing missing.”

She leaned closer, placing a hand on Parvati’s arm. “When? Have you gone to the police?”

“She went out Friday night and never returned.” Parvati met her concerned gaze. “And the police in this City are a joke. If you don’t have a bribe to pay them they won’t even bother taking your statement.” She folded her arms, glancing away. “Besides, with Lav’s job… there’s no way they'd open an investigation.” She stared pointedly ahead. “So I’ve been looking for her myself.”

“You’ve found nothing?”

Parvati shook her head.

Alicia withdrew her hand. “Where did she go Friday night?”

“Met with a new client. The bastard probably—” Parvati closed her eyes once more, unable to utter the words aloud. “But I have no idea who he is. She didn’t tell me anything.”

_Because she thought I was ashamed of her._

“Where does she normally meet new clients? Could he have been a referral?”

Parvati sighed, another dismissal ready on her tongue, when a memory emerged from the murky depths of her mind, causing her eyes to snap wide.

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

“What?”

Parvati rounded on her table companion, nearly toppling from her chair. “You’re fucking brilliant, Ali!”

Alicia laughed, and then coughed. “Don’t know about that, but I’ll take it.”

Parvati’s gaze turned sharp as she reached across the table and grabbed the empty cup, rising swiftly from her chair and crossing to the cooler.

“I’m going to find Lavender,” she stated evenly, filling the cup. “And then I’m going to find us _all_ better jobs.” She stepped beside Alicia, holding out the water and smiling sweetly. “No matter whose balls I have to cut off.”

* * *

Harry knocked on the door with the side of his fist, releasing a slow breath. He was beyond exhausted in the wake of his unexpected stroll down memory lane that morning, leaving Grimmauld as soon as Susan arrived, practically sprinting to the gate, desperate to escape the haunted interior. He wasn’t certain he had the strength to return.

He tucked his hands into his pockets, a frigid chill sweeping past, dead leaves scraping across the porch. He glanced around the neighborhood, relieved to see no eyes upon him, the atmosphere of Flushing night and day to Gramercy.

The door opened, drawing his attention forward. Ron yawned into his fist, looking much the trainwreck Harry felt like. His friend eyed him from top to bottom before stepping back, opening the door wide and gesturing him forward. Harry crossed the threshold, staring at Ron’s hair, half the locks plastered to the side of his head, the rest sprouting in every direction.

“Late night?”

Ron yawned anew, pushing the door shut. “Got in after one, I went back out after dropping off Patil.” He passed Harry, starting down the hall. “You?”

_I was up all night, pacing outside Hermione’s room, terrified she’d die in her sleep or wake up with an unstoppable craving for blood._

Harry scratched the side of his head. “Long night as well.”

Ron nodded, leading the way to the kitchen.

“Anyone else home?” Harry asked, following a few paces behind.

“Dad started his shift an hour ago, Mom’s at Church.”

Harry lifted a brow, removing his jacket. “The holy water’s there for anyone to take, right?”

Ron shot him a quizzical look as he rounded the corner into the kitchen. “What?”

“Nevermind.”

Eternal damnation was the least of his worries right now.

He followed his friend into the brightly lit space, making a beeline for the cupboard as Ron collapsed into a chair.

“I take it you guys didn’t find anything?” Harry asked, pulling a mug from the shelf.

Ron tipped his head back, stretching his arms overhead and yawning into the sunlight, his wild hair giving him the appearance of a lion mid-roar. "No," he replied at last, slumping back, arms dropping like dead weights. "We're going to try again tonight after Parvati gets off work."

Harry smirked, reaching for the percolator. “Parvati, is it?”

“Trust me,” Ron replied with a pointed glare. “There’s plenty of other names I’d love to call her.”

Harry watched a steady stream of caffeine fill the ceramic, steam rising in curling tendrils. “I don’t doubt it.”

He set the percolator back onto the base and brought to the mug to his lips, taking an eager sip, liquid scorching and sublime. He turned to the table, leaning against the counter and holding the mug between his hands. “You sticking to Hell’s Kitchen?”

Ron nodded, carding both hands through his hair. “Got about half left.”

“I’m on my way to make more copies,” Harry stated evenly, taking another deep sip. “I’ll drop some off this evening.”

Ron nodded again, rubbing the back of his neck. Harry watched him in silence, counting down the seconds. He made it to nine before his friend glanced up, obviously sensing the eyes upon him.

“Christ. You’ve got The Look,” Ron stated.

Harry lifted a brow, squeezing the base of the mug.

Ron crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “Like you’re thinking of something you know will piss me off but you’re gonna say it anyway.”

Harry couldn't contain his smirk as he set his cup aside, bracing the counter at his back. “I’m pretty sure that’s just my face at this point.”

Ron’s annoyance grew ten-fold as he beckoned with his hand. Harry wet his lips, choosing his words carefully.

“I want to take another look at her diary.”

A beat. Ron dropped his hand to the table, features crumpled in bemusement. Sunlight shimmered across the table, his arms and face, realization dawning in his eyes.

“You’re still on about that woman.”

“It’s the only lead we haven’t tapped.”

“The word _lead_ is a bit of a stretch.”

“How are you so certain?” Harry’s brows knitted together. “You’re willing to tear the city apart looking for any trace of Gin but you’re completely unwilling to consider—”

"My gut tells me it's a dead-end, alright?" Ron cringed, eyes squeezing shut as she pressed a hand to his temple.

Harry stepped forward. “You okay?”

Ron nodded, swallowing heavily. “Running on fumes, nothing another cup of coffee won’t fix.” He huffed wearily, slowly opening his eyes. “Do what you want, Harry, but I’m not wasting my time on it.”

Harry studied him a moment longer. “Alright.” He moved away from the counter, towards the doorway. “You mind if I take it with me?”

Ron blinked, looking a bit dazed. “Take what?”

“The diary.”

His friend rose from the chair, trudging towards the percolator. “Have at it.”

Harry watched him pull the pot from its base before backing into the hall, turning on his heel. Too much was happening. Nothing made sense. But his instincts had yet to fail him, so he held on tight with both hands, letting them lead him down the narrow corridor to Ginny’s closed door.

He gripped the handle.

_I’m coming, Gin._

And turned it swiftly.

_I’m coming._

* * *

Hermione entered the Archive Room on stiff legs, still reeling from the letter and it’s two haunting words. But she compartmentalized her anxiety, putting his message aside to deal with the next crisis.

She walked down the center aisle, stopping at the corner table, eyeing the wrapped texts with a determined eye. She pulled out the chair, hanging her bag over the back and tucking a loose curl behind her ear, perching gingerly on the edge and reaching for her cotton gloves.

_“Sigat ri:ac wā’baw kūmat.”_

Her jaw tensed. “We’ll see about that.”

She grabbed the package carefully, unwinding the twill binds and opening the top flap, reaching in and gently extracting the stack. She lifted the completed sheets aside, supporting them from the center as she set them to her left.

The remaining papyrus laid before her. She bit her lip, nervous anticipation swelling beneath her ribs as she slid it close. The jar hummed at her back, concealed as it was, vibrating through the seat and into her thighs. She clenched them tight, leaning forward and gazing upon the hieroglyphics, starting from the top.

Woman wearing a diadem and holding flowers, three sheepskins tied together, falcon head God holding an ankh, man with a hand to his mouth...

_The Queen was born of the sun God Ra and spoke with his mighty voice._

Forearm holding a bowl, moon, droplets, dagger...

_As such, the people offered blood sacrifice on the full moon in worship._

Seated man wearing a uraeus, dying man, hastening man...

_The Pharaoh didn’t survive the transition._

Papyrus roll emitting three lines, child wearing a red crown, spread forearms, sun rising over the moon...

_But the young Prince lived and underwent sacred spells to protect him from the sunrise._

Man with arms tied behind his back, eye of Horus, diewe, Goddess with cat head and sun disk, scimitar...

_This frightened and upset their enemies, who believed the Queen was a demon, as dangerous and vengeful as Sekhmet herself._

Arm with shield and battle-ax, sun rising over pyramid, backbone with ribs and spinal cord, arms embracing club, falling man...

_They stormed the Sacred Temple and slaughtered her priests, laying a trap for the Queen._

Ligature, interlocking circles, man striking with both hands, knife, head, man threatening with stick, flayed torso...

_They bound her in silver chains to contain her powers, cut off her head and removed her organs._

Crossed diagonal sticks, vessel, mound, lying mummy...

_They destroyed each piece, filling the jars with sand for burial._

Bowed man, liquid issuing from lips, man crouching behind wall, heart ideogram...

_But her most loyal subject survived the bloodshed and smuggled away the heart…_

Forearm with bread cone, Lotus rising over tomb...

_In the hopes Sekhmet would be reincarnated again._

Hermione gazed upon the sacred lotus for several moments, the rest of the symbols falling away. She released a sharp breath, unaware she’d been holding it.

_A virus I can get behind, but reincarnation? There’s no scientific basis._

She could practically hear Theo ranting in her mind.

 _Compartmentalize_.

She blinked twice, examining the papyrus again.

_Spoke with his mighty voice..._

Her eyes tracked lower.

_Sacred spells to protect him from the sunrise..._

Every vein in her body throbbed.

_Bound in silver chains._

Hermione shook her head in frustration, leaning back. The pieces were all right there, just within reach, screaming at her, desperate to be put together. She closed her eyes, pressing hands to either side of her head, picturing the hieroglyphs in her mind, struggling to see the big picture.

A throat gently cleared.

She opened her eyes, turning. And screamed, nearly toppling sideways to the floor.

Draco raised a pale brow, leaning casually against the shelf as he watched her cling to the table for dear life.

“Christ, Granger, I’ve been standing here for the last three minutes.”

She glared, sitting straight once more. “Try announcing yourself next time.”

“I did. Twice. Then I decided it would be far more entertaining to wait patiently and scare the shit out of you.”

“In that case, you executed the task marvelously.” She reached for the stack of texts, lifting them slowly. “I take it you’ve recovered from yesterday's interaction then?”

He stepped away from the shelf. “That really happened? I was starting to think I hallucinated the entire thing.” He tilted his head, watching her merge the piles, carefully straightening the edges. “Did you call her yet?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, and received no response. I’m going to try again this evening.”

She watched him cross towards her table from the corner of her eye.

“If she still doesn’t answer let me know, I’ll pay her a visit.” He stopped at the edge. “I’ve been meaning to anyway.”

Hermione blinked, glancing up. “Really?”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t make this into a thing.”

She smiled despite her best efforts to remain stoic. “My lips are sealed.”

“If only I could be so lucky.” His eyes flickered to the texts laid before her. “How are the translations coming along?”

Her heart skipped. The Lotus burned bright in her memory, pulsing in time to her heart. She glanced down, resuming her task. “I’m nearly finished.”

“And what does nearly mean?”

“It means almost.” Her nose twitched. “Why the sudden curiosity?”

“It’s my job to make sure you’re on schedule.”

She leaned back, folding her arms and glancing up sharply. “Your father sent you.”

He bristled. “My father doesn't send me anywhere, Granger. I’ve got a vested interest in the success of the exhibit.”

“Funny, those were his exact words to me yesterday morning.”

“Great minds think alike. I’m my father’s son, not his carbon copy, contrary to popular belief.” He lifted his chin, staring down his pointed nose at her. “McLaggen is back in town.”

She pursed her lips. “So I’ve heard.”

“He offered his services.”

“Of course he did.”

Draco smirked, hands sliding into his trouser pockets. “Dare I discern by your tone you’re not interested in his assistance?”

“You discern correctly.” She leaned forward, grabbing the parcel and carefully sliding the texts inside.

“No one can do this job better than you, Granger.”

The unexpected declaration scattered her thoughts.

“No one disputes that,” he continued. “Not even my father. But everyone needs help sometimes.” She glanced up. His gaze was steady, knowing. “It doesn’t make you second to Cormac. It makes you human.”

The words echoed in her head, but it was the last one she heard the loudest.

 _Human_.

“The final translations need to be in by the end of the week so we can send them to the printer,” he stated, pulling her from the edge of the abyss.

She swallowed tightly, sealing the top flap. “You’ll have them.” Her hands flattened over the bundle. “I’ll pull Anthony if I need help.”

“See that you do.”

He stepped away from the table, starting for the door. She watched him leave, and as he crossed before her the air shifted, turning hot and arid as the desert. He moved past an empty chair and a figure appeared, seated calmly, watching Hermione with a sinister grin.

The woman from her dream.

Hermione gasped, hurtling back and toppling from her chair.

“Oof!” She hit the ground with a crash, legs kicking the air as her knees hooked over the seat.

Draco spun in place, expression unchanging in light of her predicament.

“Granger?”

She blinked rapidly, struggling to rise.

The woman was gone.

“I thought… I thought I saw…”

He sighed dramatically, moving to her side and bracing the back of the chair with one hand, reaching down and grabbing her arm with the other, hauling her up with surprising strength.

“Alright, enough of this. What the hell is going on? Are you having a mental breakdown or something?”

_Or something..._

Hermione swayed in place, eyes fasting to his neck, the steady thrum of his artery. She closed her eyes, swallowing heavily.

“I have to go.”

“To an asylum?”

Her eyes snapped open, narrowing. But his face bore no trace of amusement.

“No? Alright, we’ll head to Mungo's instead—”

“No!”

She pulled free of his grasp.

“Let me guess,” he bit out, “it’s just low blood sugar.”

Hermione reached for her bag, fumbling with the strap. The jar, the lotus, the blood, it was too much, she needed to get out of here.

“Granger, you need to see a Doctor—”

"I can't go to the hospital, Draco. I just need to go home." She pushed the chair into place, trying to maneuver around him. “I have medicine there.”

He scanned her face, unmoved. “As I said, you’re an abysmal liar.”

She groaned, her morning zap of energy long gone in the wake of so many bizarre encounters. She tried to shoulder past him again, only to succumb to sudden vertigo, gripping the edge of the desk to steady herself.

_For goodness sake..._

Draco clearly shared in the sentiment. “You can barely stand upright!”

“You’re being dramatic.” She transferred her grip to the chair, inching her way to the door.

He watched her snail-like progress, shaking his head like she was the most pitiful thing he’d ever had the misfortune of stumbling across. “I’m never dramatic. Do you really want to pass out on the Subway?”

“I’ll take a cab.”

“Passing out in the back of a cab is just as bad. Half the drivers are unregistered. Rapists and murders, the lot of them.”

She inhaled slowly, trying to gather her bearings. “Never dramatic.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Are you registered?”

"Fucking hilarious." He pulled the chair from her grasp and grabbed her wrist, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm and leading her forward, expression pinched in acute annoyance all the while. "Do your very best not to die on the way over. I just got new upholstery."

She pressed a hand to her stomach as they entered the hallway, nausea seizing her in its grip, as though his words alone called forth the new symptom.

“Drive fast,” she whispered, feeling the color drain from her face.

Draco glanced at her sharply. “Please, keep your lunch _inside_ your stomach until we get to Greenwich—”

“Gramercy.”

He blinked, grabbing the railing as they reached the steps. “Gramercy?” They started up. “Grimmauld?”

She nodded, listing into his side beyond her control.

“I thought it was boarded up,” he continued, voice fading in and out of her awareness.

“It was. Harry’s home.” She felt his arm stiffen under her hand.

“Potter’s in New York?”

She rubbed her throbbing temple, pressure rapidly swelling behind her eyes. “That’s what home implies.”

She awaited the next barb but was met with tense silence instead. She glanced up, squinting against the overhead lights, studying his regal profile.

“Draco?”

He shook his head, looking more agitated than when they left the Archive Room.

“Come on.” He began to pull her along more quickly, the sharp line of his jaw ticking. “The sooner we get there the sooner I can dump you off on that idiot.”

She released her head to clutch her stomach once more, nails digging into the stiff fabric of her blouse. “Such a gentleman.”

* * *

Tom awoke with a disgruntled sigh, aggravated by the entire affair. It had been many decades since he’d had what might be considered a good night’s sleep. What he settled for in the dark of his Penthouse suite every few days was a weak substitution for rest. But he was loathe to abandon his sheets all the same.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, muscles waking one by one as he rose gracefully, grabbing his robe off the back of the chair and pulling it on, chest bare. He’d deal with clothing later, once his curdling mood settled into something more manageable. He opened the double doors and carded a hand through his hair, cutting a quick path for the dining room.

Abraxas was seated at the end of the table, dressed in a three-piece suit and reading the newspaper, alert and rested.

Fucker.

Tom crossed to the chair on the opposite end, spotting the cup of coffee situated before the blonde and shaking his head. His General insisted on brewing a pot every morning, never taking a sip. One of many quirks Tom had grown accustomed to at some point, paying little mind except when in the mood to ostracize.

Abraxas lowered the paper, peering up. “Good morning.”

Tom took his seat at the head of the table, reaching for the folded newspaper awaiting him.

“How was your night?” Tom asked by way of greeting, for their morning’s were never _good_ , only monotonous, trapped indoors as they were. He read the Monday headline as Abraxas turned back to his article, hands tensing on the page.

“Rodolphus followed me.”

_For fuck’s sake._

Tom’s shoulder blades tightened. “Did you speak to him?”

“Briefly.”

“Meddlesome bitch,” Tom muttered, turning the page.

Abraxas spoke from behind his paper. “She suspects something amiss.”

“I’m shocked it took her this long. Did he see the home?”

A long beat. “I don’t know,” Abraxas admitted at last. “It’s possible.”

Tom arched a dark brow and studied him closely, reading his guarded expression as easily as the words printed before him. “What else?”

Abraxas looked away for half an instant. Tom tilted his head, intrigued.

“I…” The blonde cleared his throat, straightening. “I was followed by something else.”

Tom set the paper down, resting his elbows on the gleaming wood and steepling his fingers before his lips. “ _Something_?”

Abraxas held his gaze. “Someone.” He lifted his chin, as though he had any hopes of throwing his Maker off the scent. “It was difficult to discern.”

“You were unable to track them?”

Tom watched the war play out in his General's eyes, thoroughly entertained by his discomfort.

“I became tied up in another matter.”

Abraxas wasn’t usually this evasive. Tom allowed the man to have his secrets, as long as they didn’t interfere with his own success.

“I don’t have time for this bullshite,” Tom said pointedly, eyes lightening in warning. “If it happens again, follow through. Take care of it.”

Abraxas nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

Tom released him from the make-shift interrogation, leaning back and reaching for his paper.

“What happened at Grimmauld?” The blonde asked after a weighted beat, mirroring his movements.

Tom scowled at the reminder, opening the page with such force it ripped cleanly down the center.

Abraxas nodded to himself. “That’s a good sign.”

“She’s behind a bloody forcefield,” Tom replied evenly, throwing the scrap aside. “Either she’s employed ancient witchcraft or she keeps very interesting company.”

Abraxas tilted his head, pulse quickening. “Is she marked?”

“No.” Tom began to scan the business section. “I’d have sensed it when I touched her.” His gaze flickered to the next page, halting at the headline.

**Fudge Considers Curfew?**

His eyes narrowed. Bloody imbeciles.

“It was a productive evening all the same.” He skimmed the article beneath a grainy black and white photo of the hog mascot masquerading as their Mayor. “I brought the incessant neighbor under my thumb. And I had enough time left over to pay a quick visit to our friend at the PD.”

Abraxas raised a pale brow. “Is he still alive?”

Tom glared at the weather report. “I resent that question.”

_He leaned back, kicking the barrier with all his strength, expecting it to split down the center. Instead, the door flew off the hinges, flying into the dimly lit room and crashing into the opposite wall._

“I’m more than capable of having a calm and intelligent conversation.”

_He strode inside with an unhurried gait, watching the human scramble from his chair while uttering a string of unintelligible pleas. Tom leaned down, grabbing the edge of the desk and flipping it sideways, cracking the plaster on impact. The human stumbled over his own feet, too terrified to run, to scream. Tom seized him by the necktie, ripping him forward._

“I do have self-control, Abraxas.”

_He threw the man into another wall, framed certificates and plaques falling to the hardwood, glass shattering at their feet. The human clawed at Tom’s wrist, desperately fighting the steel grip on his tie, cutting off his airway, face purple as a plum. Tom wondered if he could make the human’s head explode just by strangling him. He was curious enough to give it a go._

“We had a reasonable discussion regarding our prior arrangement.”

_Tom pulled the idiot forward only to slam him back again, impressed as his hollow skull cracked the drywall, eyes bloodshot and dazed. He dragged the tie higher, pulling the fat fuck onto his tip-toes as he sputtered desperately. And then Tom leaned in close, eyes gleaming, voice perfectly calm._

_“You work for_ me _, you worthless fucking pissant. Forget that pertinent detail again and I’ll hand your punishment down to your wife and child. Do I make myself clear?”_

_“Y-Yes! I’m sorry, Riddle! They got an anonymous tip, I tried to stop them—”_

_“I’m not interested in your pathetic excuses. Only results. The next shipment that gets seized will cost you dearly, much more than it costs me.”_

_The human swallowed convulsively, head tipped back as he fought to keep his airway open, struggling for each wheezing breath. Tom was suddenly overcome with the pungent scent of ammonia. He glanced down, cringing at the sight of the man pissing himself, yellow liquid pooling around Tom’s Italian Oxfords._

_Bloody fantastic._

_Tom released him, stepping away from the mess with a look of disgust. The human collapsed like a ton of bricks, gasping frantically and pulling at his tie with trembling hands. Tom shook his foot, drops of urine splashing the wall and the human’s flushed face._

_“Always a pleasure, Thicknesse.”_

Tom turned the page, glancing over the Arts & Entertainment section, looking for any mention of the Met. “On an unrelated note, I need a new pair of Ferragamo’s.”

Abraxas’ heavy sigh echoed down the table, rustling the edges of Tom’s paper. “You can’t keep killing Commissioners.”

“You say that as if I’ve killed more than two.”

The blonde pinched the bridge of his nose. Tom ignored the gesture, reading about an upcoming Opera. “They were as idiotic as they were corrupt. It’s my job to rid the City of vermin, elected officials included.”

 _La traviata_ by Verdi. Beautiful, classic, but too romantic for his taste. He had no doubt Abraxas already bought a ticket.

“And Thicknesse is quickly proving as useless as his ill-fated predecessors. Our business dealings aside, he’s got his thumb up his arse regarding these kidnappings. Once more it seems I’ll have to deal with the problem myself.”

Abraxas began to fold his paper. “Would you like for me to start vetting detectives?”

Tom tilted his head, considering. “The younger generation is still malleable. Perhaps there’s hope for decent leadership yet.”

“I’ll begin tonight.”

“No.” Tom read an announcement for a new ballet company. “I need you to pay a visit to Mungo’s. Four liters should do it. I want the cabin stocked.”

Abraxas stiffened, paper held aloft. “The cabin?”

Tom turned the page, eyes alighting on the full-page ad staring out at him. “It won’t be safe for her here, not with Bella breathing down my bloody neck.”

“She’s ahead of schedule.”

Tom stared at the black and white image of a sarcophagus surrounded by random Egyptian trinkets, though the pottery appeared Persian in design. He smirked, imagining Hermione's reaction when she caught the mistake.

“Yes.” He stared into the eyes of the death mask, certain it was staring back. “I expect her transition to begin tonight.”

* * *

Draco craned his neck, taking in the full extravagance of the monstrous structure before them. “Christ. How is this place even still standing? It’s fucking lopsided.”

He pushed the gate open as her skull split down the center, the migraine she started to feel on 5th Avenue now in full swing.

“Thank you for the ride, Malfoy, I’ll be fine—”

“So you keep saying. And yet each time it leaves me more convinced you’re actually dying.”

She tried to scowl but couldn’t seem to control the muscles in her face. “I’m not dying.”

“Good.” He took her arm once more, leading her across the cobblestone. “Finding your replacement will be a bitch and I’m _not_ getting stuck with fucking McLaggen.”

She rolled her eyes, instantly regretting the choice. Light exploded behind her lids, feet clumsy as they started up the rotting stairs.

“These steps are a travesty, the porch can’t possibly be up to code.”

“I’ll be sure to pass your concerns onto Harry.” She pressed a hand to either side of her head as they stepped inside the home.

“See that you do, along with my dry cleaning bill. I’ll need to have this suit freshly pressed after hauling your half-conscious body through the museum and across town.”

She sighed, pressing the heels of her palms against her lids as he closed the door. Soft footsteps sounded nearby.

“Hermione?”

She dropped her hands, turning for the archway. Susan rounded the corner, emerging from the shadows with a smile.

“You’re back early.”

Draco stepped towards the center of the room, eyeing the cobweb-strewn rafters. “We’ve come for her imaginary medicine.”

Hermione ignored him, focusing upon the nurse and attempting to smile. But her face still wasn’t having it. Her stomach joined in the rebellion, turning violently. She gasped, clutching her middle and swaying precariously.

Susan and Draco sprang for her in the same instant, each catching an arm to help steady her.

“Hermione, what’s wrong?” Susan asked, face tense.

Something crashed in the other room. The young woman turned towards the noise. “Shit!”

“I’m alright, go.”

Susan glanced at her, conflict clear across her face.

"It's okay, stay with Papa," Hermoine assured, fighting to keep her rising agony out of her voice, organs shifting under the skin. "It's just a flu bug. I'm going to have a lie-down."

Susan eyed her an excruciating moment more before nodding hesitantly, releasing her arm. “I’ll be right down the hall if you need me.”

Hermione watched her walk away slowly, too goddamn slowly, holding it together until the woman rounded the corner, disappearing from sight. Then she gasped, doubling over, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

Draco raised a brow, watching her slowly die without a care in the world. Insufferable bastard.

“We’ve graduated to a flu bug now?”

She gritted her teeth, too far gone to respond. The sharp pain eased with the next breath, just enough for her to straighten, smoothing her hands over her blouse, certain she looked like a train crash victim.

Crookshanks came skidding around the corner, slowing his approach at the last minute as though just happening to notice his owner’s presence. His back arched high, rubbing along her ankles with a deep purr. And then, more shocking than the existence of vampires and reincarnated Goddesses, her cat rubbed along Draco’s leg, purring anew.

But Malfoy didn’t seem to grasp the full magnitude of the moment, scowling down at her feline instead. “Wonderful, now I _definitely_ need to have the suit laundered—”

She gasped, clutching his shoulder and squeezing the muscle tight as another painful contraction began within her gut.

_I’m dying._

She bit the side of her hand to stifle a cry.

_I’m dying I’m dying I’m dying—_

“Don’t you _dare_ vomit on my shoes, Granger.”

She wanted to kill him. If she’d been holding a blunt object or standing in close proximity to one she would happily bludgeon him beyond all recognition. She glanced around the foyer just in case there was a hatchet lying nearby.

The pain passed. She sagged into his side, hardly aware of his arm around her waist, holding her upright.

“I just… need to lie down.”

He eyed her carefully, seeming to grasp the severity at long last. “Where’s your room?”

“Upstairs,” she said weakly, the thought of making the long journey bringing a fresh wave of tears to her eyes.

_I’ll lie down here. This is just as good as—_

She shrieked as her legs were swept out from under her. Draco knelt low, tipping her into his arms and rising. She clutched his neck, shocked and mortified, but mostly grateful.

“Fucking hell, what a piece of work you are,” he seethed, adjusting her weight as he started forward. “Which room?”

Crookshanks meowed loudly, darting up the steps in a flash.

“Follow the cat,” she said, dropping her forehead to his shoulder as another round of cramping began.

He shook his head, beginning the climb. “Only you.”

* * *

Harry paced steadily down the sidewalk, diary in hand, flipping through pages as he went. He turned to the last entry, reading it for the fifth time, carefully sidestepping a flower box lining the curb.

_I met the most fascinating person today. She owns a speakeasy in Long Island City and is getting ready to open another in Manhattan. A female business owner… and her outfit! She's absolutely incredible. Best part— she offered me a job! Said I was way too vibrant to be stuck in an office all day. She thinks I could go far working under her. Fuck I wanted to take her up on the offer, but my mom and dad would lose their shit if I went to work in a nightclub. Especially after all the strings dad pulled to get me this job. Apparently, I still have a "reputation" from the stupid graduation prank. No one in this goddamn town has a sense of humor, it's not like they couldn't put the fire out—_

Harry blinked, noticing a new detail for the first time. He traced his fingertip along the center binding, feeling the jagged edge of torn paper.

A page was missing.

His shoulders tensed.

 _Removed_.

He stumbled over an uneven rise in the pavement, catching himself against a street lamp and glancing up, realizing he was already halfway across Grimmauld. He tilted his head, glimpsing a Rolls-Royce parked outside the rod iron gates of the mansion, dark paneling gleaming and pristine.

His brow creased, step quickening as he searched the street for its owner, only to spot a black Cadillac parked at the other end, back window cracked and engine running. He stopped at the gates, glancing between both vehicles before movement caught his eye across the street. His spine stiffened as he met Slughorn's watchful gaze. The man stood at his front window, staring out.

Harry raised a dark brow and then his hand, waving awkwardly. Slughorn gazed at him for another few seconds before stepping back, dropping the curtain and disappearing from sight without returning the greeting.

Harry dropped his arm.

Right.

He turned, opening the gate and charging through.

_This day can’t get any more fucked._

He galloped up the buckled steps, crossing the porch and reaching for the knob, only to watch as the door opened itself, parting slowly and creaking loudly.

Harry remained at the threshold, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

_And I spoke too soon._

He stepped inside, the diary clutched tightly as he searched the entry for headless apparitions. But the sight to greet him was made of flesh and blood.

“Susan?” He asked, watching the nurse dart into the room.

“Thank god you’re back!”

His heart lurched. “What’s wrong? Is Richard—”

“It’s Hermione.”

He froze, blood draining from his face as his worst fears were confirmed. “What happened?”

“She’s upstairs—”

He was sprinting for the steps before she uttered another word, taking the stairs two at a time, skidding across the landing and tearing around the corner into the hall. Her bedroom door stood ajar, a strip of orange light cutting across the runner and wood paneling.

He pushed the door wide, panting hard, eyes wild. “Mione?”

He spotted Crookshanks first, seated at the center of her bed flicking his bushy tail, eyes hooded, supremely unconcerned by Harry’s abrupt arrival.

And then his gaze darted to the figure standing before the windows. The man had one hand in his pocket while the other braced the frame, pale eyes fixed upon him, narrowing to slits.

Harry blinked, stumbling back. “Malfoy?”

The blonde lifted his chin, turning to face him fully. “Potter.”

Harry shook his head, thoughts scrambled. “Where's—”

Muffled retching met his ears, drawing his attention to the closed bathroom door, a thin strip of light emanating from the gap beneath. Harry started forward, hands tensed.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Malfoy supplied, tone bored.

Harry paused halfway to his destination.

“She’s been throwing up for the last hour,” the blonde continued. “Blood splatter would be less disgusting.”

Harry heard the toilet flush, followed by running water from the sink.

“She refuses to tell me what’s wrong with her.” Malfoy’s eyes narrowed once more, scanning Harry with slow precision. “So I’m guessing you won’t tell me either.”

Harry inhaled slowly, holding the man’s keen gaze. And then the bathroom door opened.

“Harry!”

He spun around, body pulsing at the sight of her. She was pale as a sheet, glistening with a film of sweat, hair half fallen from its pins and blouse rumpled and untucked.

“It’s worse,” he said, feeling compelled to state the obvious.

She slumped into the bathroom frame.

“What’s worse?” Malfoy asked, glancing between them.

“It’s nothing,” she insisted, even as she relied on the wall to stay upright. Her cat leaped from the bed, circling her feet with its tail standing straight on end.

Harry shook his head, stepping towards the hall. “I’m getting Nott.”

She pushed off the doorway, eyes wide. “No!”

“Not what?” The idiot asked, pale brow raised.

Harry turned to him, eyes intense. “Stay with her until I get back.”

“I don’t need Theo—”

“Theo?” Malfoy cut her off, rocking back. “Holy hell, are you talking about _Theodore Nott_?”

Harry ignored him. “Have you had any other symptoms?”

She somehow paled even more, practically translucent before him.

“Exactly,” Harry said gravely. “We need him.” He held her gaze. “Before it’s too late.”

“Will someone tell me what the _fuck_ is going on?”

Harry faced the other man once more. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

“Harry,” Hermione reached forward, grabbing his arm. “It’s not safe for Draco to be alone with me. I could hurt him.”

Malfoy blinked down at her. “Wait, what?”

“Better him than Susan,” Harry said.

Malfoy scowled. “I beg to differ.”

“It’s not safe for her either. Please, send her home and lock my father in his room, I don’t want to put either of them in danger.”

“I’m touched, Granger,” Malfoy drawled.

Harry nodded, reaching out and gripping both her shoulders. “I’ll try to make it back before sunset.” He pressed her skin with his thumbs. She felt cool to the touch. “Stay with me,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes, nodding shortly. He leaned down, kissing her forehead and drawing back, turning for the door.

“Stay with her, Malfoy!”

The blonde tilted his head, shouting after his retreating figure. “Shouldn’t I sign a death and dismemberment waiver first?”

Harry rounded the corner with as much speed and determination as he entered with. As he reached the steps he heard her run back into the bathroom, slamming the door. He flew down the stairs with a vengeance. Time was running out.

And he wasn’t going to lose her.

* * *

Theo dragged a hand through his hair, strands standing on end as he turned on his heal, resuming his rapid pace around the lab table. The… woman? Corpse? — _he shook his head, overwhelmed_ — sat on the edge of the stool, silent and watchful. She’d wrapped the sheet around her body like a toga, paired with her pale complexion and sunken eyes she looked like Achlys, goddess of death, the grey mist that filled the eyes as the last breath left the body, the eternal night before Chaos.

_You’re rambling like an idiot._

He turned again, starting his fiftieth lap. She tilted her head, following his path with her clouded gaze. He couldn’t bear to meet her eye for more than a few seconds at a time. All had been silent for several hours, so when she spoke it echoed off the walls of his mind with such force he nearly tipped sideways, overcome.

“Who are you?”

He groaned, rubbing his brow. She'd asked him the same question countless times. He'd taken to ignoring it, she only retained the information for a few minutes at a time. Conversing with her was a wasted endeavor. He glanced around. The mice had settled at long last, the cage bent but still intact. The footless bastard had infected her—

_It’s my fault he got loose in the first place._

Theo tipped his head back, glaring at the overhead lights and rubbing his nape.

_All of this is my fault. I infected Abigail. She turned the others. And now this..._

At least the woman didn’t appear to react with the same unstoppable bloodlust as her four-legged counterparts. A small blessing.

“Theodore.”

He stopped dead, colliding with a rolling cart as he spun. She hadn’t moved from her perch, clouded eyes fixed to him with eerie intensity. He swallowed heavily, hands opening and closing at his sides.

“Theo,” he replied slowly, wondering if he imagined the soft utterance. “You remembered.”

She blinked, as though cataloging the information somewhere in the grey matter of her brain. "Who am I?"

He took a steadying breath. She hadn't asked that one before. Of all the plans he'd been concocting in his mind, he hadn't run through this troublesome scenario.

“You’re…”

_A mangled body I purchased illegally from a shady street peddler._

“My cousin.”

Theo blinked.

_What?_

He tensed at his own stupidity, eager to backtrack, but it was too late. She blinked again, accepting the statement as truth.

“Cousin,” she whispered, rolling a fold of fabric between her fingers.

He swallowed thickly. “Do you know that word?”

She tilted her head the other way, never breaking his gaze. “Family.”

He rocked back, gripping the edge of the cart. He hadn’t heard that word in a very long time, wasn’t sure he understood the meaning anymore. But she seemed to grasp the concept, her comprehension accelerating as quickly as her vocabulary.

“Yes. Family,” he uttered.

“Why can’t I remember?”

His eyes swept over her form, pale arms grotesquely decorated with the imprint of teeth. “You were in an accident.”

She blinked, then glanced down, unwinding the sheet from her body and parting it wide, inspecting her front without hesitation or shame.

“Was I?”

Theo turned away swiftly, raising a hand in her direction, a blush staining his cheeks beyond his control. “You need clothes,” he muttered, considering his options. “You’ll have to wear mine until I can go shopping.”

He started across the lab, heading for the barren cot in the corner and the crate situated beneath.

_Clothes won’t make her look like less of a corpse. You drained her of every ounce of blood. If you’d performed an autopsy she’d be filled with fucking newspaper._

He dragged the crate out, opening the lid and rummaging through the contents, gathering a few garments in his arm and turning—

Only to shout, startled to find her standing just before him, crossing the floor without a sound. He staggered back, tripping over the trunk and falling onto the cot, its rushed hinges creaking. She stood unnaturally still.

_She doesn’t breathe._

“You live here?” She asked, unperturbed by his reaction.

“Um…” He pushed up slowly, eyeing her warily. “Yes.”

She glanced at the cot he currently sprawled across, then the trunk. He felt himself flush anew, scrambling to his feet, feeling the need to explain.

“My apartment was on the other side of town and…”

She turned away, distracted by the items on the nearby shelf. He sighed, shaking his head and gathering the clothes, holding them out.

“Here.”

She spun swiftly, hair dancing across her shoulders. “Do I live here, too?”

Theo stiffened. “No. You… don’t live here. That’s why none of your things are here.” An awkward beat. She accepted the pile of clothes with a small smile. He cleared his throat, shifting back. “But I’ll fetch them for you. That is—”

She continued to watch him, patient and silent as one of his mice. Before they turned into ravenous pains in the ass.

“It’s safest for you to remain here,” he finished. “Until your memory is recovered.”

She stood so still she appeared dead.

_She is dead._

And then she blinked, disrupting the eerie illusion.

“Who am I?”

Theo deflated at once.

_So much for that._

He wet his lips, disappointment heavy in his voice. “You’re my cousin,” he stated simply, preparing for her to ask his name once more.

Instead, she shook her head, laughing softly. The sound was so lively it was disturbing. Not because it emanated from a standing corpse, rather because Theo was so unused to hearing the sound, least of within these four barren walls.

“I mean, what’s _my_ name?”

Theo stood taller. Thrilled to see her mind wasn’t breaking down. It was strengthening. And yet...

“Your name?” He repeated, trying to buy himself more time to think. Fuck. His mind went startling blank. She continued to watch him patiently, the silence stretching, yawning endlessly with no escape in sight.

His lips parted of their own accord, the words slipping free without rhyme or reason.

“Your name… is Anastasia.” He held her clouded gaze. “Anastasia Nott.”

She grinned. “Anastasia.” And tilted her head once more, studying his face as though reading something printed across the front. “I think I remember that.”

His heart skipped a painful beat.

And then a rapid pounding at the door broke the dark spell, drawing both their focus to the catwalk. At first he was relieved, grateful for the distraction. Until he realized what the distraction meant. Panic set in.

“Stay put.” He started for the staircase, fists clenched tight. “I’ll get rid of them.”

“Why?”

Theo halted, rocking in place and glancing back. She adjusted her sheet, holding his clothes under her arm.

“Why get rid of them?” She clarified.

His gaze drifted to her throat, painted every shade of violet and blue, then back to her opaque eyes.

“So you can get dressed in privacy, and rest.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Theo.”

He felt a sharp twinge in his chest, incessant and painful, but nodded all the same, turning for the stairs once more. The pounding resumed, hard and heavy, so intense he feared the metal gate would break. He took the steps in a blinding rush, glancing down at the warehouse floor. She had moved behind a shelf to change, out of sight from the door.

He released a slow breath, turning to the barrier with a scowl and opening it a sliver, evening light bleeding through, overtaking his vision and illuminated the silhouette of a broad figure on the other side of the accordion gate.

“Nott, thank god you’re here!”

Theo’s eyes adjusted, the figure coming into clear view. “Potter, now isn’t—”

“We need you. Now.” A weighted pause. “It’s Hermione.”

Theo stiffened, fingers curling around the handle. “She’s gotten worse,” he surmised.

Potter nodded, expression grave. “I think she…” He looked away, drawing a hand over his face. “I think it’s happening.”

Theo sighed, glancing back into the lab. A feminine shadow cast across the wall as she dressed before the standing light.

“Nott!”

Theo jolted, spinning forward.

“Come on, we need to hurry!”

Theo pinched the bridge of his nose, mind racing. “Let me grab my medical bag. Stay here.”

He slammed the door on Potter's dumbfounded expression, muffling whatever idiotic outburst surely followed.

“Anastasia!” He called, racing down the steps.

She walked out from behind the shelf, wearing black trousers and a linen shirt, not yet buttoned. The center of her torso was revealed, the bite marks along her stomach on full display. He wondered how he would explain the wounds to her when she inevitably asked.

_Perhaps she’ll be more curious about why she lacks a pulse._

He took a deep breath.

_Focus on one crisis at a time._

She stepped closer, face open, unguarded. “Yes?”

“I need to run an errand. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but I promise to return as soon as I can. In the meantime, it’s very important you stay here. You mustn't leave the laboratory under any circumstance, do you understand?”

She nodded, asking no questions. He glanced around, eyes lingering on a bubbling beaker on one of the tables, then to Granger's blood samples scattered across the desk, the goddamn _mice_...

“Also… don’t touch anything.”

She blinked.

“For your safety,” he added.

She nodded again and then pressed a hand to her bare stomach. "Will you bring back food?"

Theo tracked the movement, feeling his pulse quicken.

“Please?” She asked softly.

His eyes lingered upon her hand. “You’re hungry,” he stated gravely, dread rising.

She nodded a third time, biting her lip.

_Don’t panic. She hasn’t shown any signs of hostility. Quite the opposite._

“Of course.” He cleared his throat and met her eyes. “What sort of food do you like?”

She smirked, the wry expression taking him by surprise. “I’ve no idea. I was hoping you would know.”

He released his breath in a rush.

Potter resumed his crazed banging. Bastard.

“Right. I’ll bring back supper for us both.”

Theo dashed for his case beneath the desk, opening the drawer and throwing a few items inside, including the holy water and crucifix because it just seemed like that kind of day, and snapped the top shut. He turned to face her, squeezing the leather handle.

“Remember—”

“Stay here,” she said with a soft smile. “And don’t touch anything.”

He blinked, shoulders easing, and smiled in return. The banging grew louder until Theo was certain the maniac's fist would come punching through the wall.

“I’ll be back.” He turned away, starting for the stairs.

She stepped forward, waving shortly. “Goodbye, Cousin.”

His smile dropped like a stone, knuckles turning white against the railing. “Goodbye.”

He stumbled the rest of the way to the top, losing his balance and catching himself with a low curse. She laughed softly. He shook his head, straightening on the landing and throwing open the door.

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” Potter exploded without preamble. “Were you taking a shit? This is a fucking emergency!”

Theo scowled, unlocking the gate and pushing it aside. He shut the door at his back and then stared at it, wondering if he should lock her in. She’d given her word she’d stay put...

_She’s a talking corpse you met a few hours ago. Lock the fucking door._

He withdrew the keys from his pocket, locking the door and the gate from the outside before turning swiftly, meeting Potter's enraged stare and gesturing into the alley.

“Lead the way, Gallahad.”

* * *

Ron glanced at his watch, its backing scratched and strap frayed, groaning at the time.

Fantastic, at this rate they’d have no time to search.

The door across the hall opened to reveal a woman dressed in a pale yellow uniform, a waitress— or maybe a maid, purse and keys in hand. He recognized her from before, when she’d stormed the hall pantsless, shouting at him and Patil to shut the hell up. She gazed up, seeing him at last, smirking as she closed her door.

“Hey there, gingerbread man.”

He blinked. “Hello.”

She leaned against her door, crossing her arms. “Waiting up for Patil?”

He tucked his hands into his pockets, glancing down the hall. “Yeah, she should be home any minute.”

_Unless she stood me up. Why the hell do I even bother putting up with it?_

She tilted her head, seeming to read the disquiet in his eyes. “You never know with her. That girl follows the beat of her own drum.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

She laughed, then gave him a meaningful once over, eyes lingering in places that left him blushing to the tips of his ears. He gazed down the hall once more, rocking back on his heels.

_Where the fuck are you, Patil?_

The neighbor’s laughter deepened, clearly delighted by his unease as she edged forward. “I’ve seen you around here before now.”

He nodded, stepping back. “I’m a friend of Lavender.”

She arched a manicured brow, holding his gaze as she invaded his personal space. “Friend?”

He cleared his throat, pressing flat to the wall as she closed in. “Yeah.”

She stopped just before him, floral perfume heavy on the air, undercut by the menthol and moonshine on her breath.

“If you’re ever in the market for a new friend, you come pay me a visit.” She pressed a hand to his chest, tracing his pectoral muscle through his shirt. “I won’t even charge you for it.”

He gulped audibly, wondering if the wall was thin enough to burrow through. And then a figure rounded the corner, halting in its tracks.

“Back off, Lucy.”

He instantly deflated, happy to hear her hostile voice for the first time in his life. He could practically see the halo hovering around her frazzled braid as she marched down the hall, adorning a grease-stained uniform and sweat-soaked bandana like angel wings.

The neighbor dropped her hand, stepping back with a lascivious grin. “Parv, welcome home. I was just keeping your _friend_ company while he waited.”

“I bet you were. Leave him be.”

The woman laughed anew, walking back to her door. “Whatever you say, kids.” She lifted her keys, turning over the lock. “Whatever you say.” She started down the hall, casting a wink over her shoulder as she met Ron’s relieved eye. “The offer’s still open.”

She blew him a kiss, laughing harder as he blushed anew, glancing away. Parvati shook her head, waiting until the woman rounded the corner before turning the full force of her ire upon him.

“ _Really_?”

He blinked, meeting her incensed glare. “What?”

“Lav’s been gone for all of three days and you’re already banging the neighbor?”

His jaw fell wide, shock and outrage choking him of coherency. “No! I didn’t— she was the one who— I tried—”

Parvati held his mortified gaze a moment longer before bursting into laughter, loud and boisterous, doubling over with the force.

Ron shook his head, seething. “Very funny.” He dragged a hand over his face, falling back into the wall, shocked it wasn’t stained through with his sweaty imprint. “Fuck.”

She smirked, reaching for her keys. “That’s what it looked like, surprised she didn’t mount you in the hall.”

He cringed, desperate to change the subject. “You’re late.”

“No, you’re early.” She unlocked her door, shouldering it open.

He glared, following her inside. “The sun’s almost down, we’ll have barely an hour to—”

“We _aren’t_ going to play this game again.”

She threw her bag onto the couch as he closed her door, turning to face him with feet braced and arms crossed.

“We’re going out tonight,” she announced.

He set his jaw. “Patil—”

“I know a way to find her. It could lead to information on your sister as well.”

He fell silent, pulse thrumming. She smirked, knowing she’d sufficiently hooked him.

“But it’ll _only_ work at night,” she added, bracing for his reaction.

They held each other’s gaze across the threadbare rug for several seconds. Until he stepped forward at last, nodding with resolve.

“Fuck it. I’m game.”

Her smirk turned wicked with delight.

* * *

Hermione fell back from the toilet, gasping for breath and reaching for the roll of tissue, ripping off a few squares and wiping her mouth. She balled the paper and flushed it with a cringe, grabbing the edge of the sink and pulling to her feet.

Her knees felt weak, joints swollen and achy, skin crawling with ants. She swayed in place, steadying herself before the mirror, daring to look up.

Ugh.

She tried to smooth her hair, pinching her cheeks to revive the color. It was such a jarring contrast to the vibrant face staring back at her that very morning.

A knock sounded on the door.

She sighed, turning on the tap. “Come in at your own peril.”

The door opened, Malfoy appearing in the mirror's reflection, utterly pristine. She wanted to punch him. Right in the pointed nose. He arched a pale brow, leaning into the frame with a smug grin.

“I’ve finally figured it out.”

She grabbed her toothbrush off the vanity. “This should be good.”

“Swooning at work—”

“I didn’t swoon.”

“Hurling your guts like the Trevi Fountain,” he continued, undaunted.

She rolled her eyes, squeezing toothpaste onto the bristles.

“Potter’s sudden return, his insistence on bringing an unlicensed doctor to the house.”

She began to brush, cringing all the while, the brush too large for her mouth and the baking soda triggering her gag reflex.

“ _Your_ insistence on locking your father away, far from the surely devastating news that would befall him otherwise.”

She spat into the sink, blocking the motion with her hand. She might look like death warmed over but she wouldn't forgo etiquette.

He folded his arms, teeth gleaming in the vanity lights. “You’re up the duff.”

She gagged at last, choking mint foam into the sink. “Up the—”

“There’s no point in denying it, Granger. So tell me, who’s the unfortunate bastard?”

She turned off the sink, wiping her mouth with a washcloth. “I refuse to dignify such idiocy with a response.”

“Says every guilty person ever.” And then his eyes widened, excitement palpable. “Wait. Is it someone I know?”

She rolled her eyes, pushing past him to enter the bedroom.

“Come now, don’t be stingy with details,” he turned, tracking her movements with sheer delight, “You’ve dragged me in this far, I’m practically an honorary member of the Nerds and Rejects Club.”

She began searching for her hairbrush as Crookshanks weaved between her feet, mewling loudly, vying for attention after being locked out of the bathroom for so long.

"The truth will out," he said, no doubt meaning the words in jest, but they held a profoundly different meaning to her at that moment. She glanced to the window, eyeing the pink and violet sky, the sun slowly setting.

“Be careful what you wish for, Malfoy.”

She found the brush wedged deep between her dresser and the wall. She suspected Crookshanks was the guilty party, always batting her bottles and ties off the countertops. She reached up, tugging the pins from her hair and shaking the matted curls free with a vengeance.

“All the pieces fit,” Malfoy continued, tucking his hands into his pockets as he paced casually towards her. “Including Potter’s warning regarding my mortal peril. Pregnant women are notoriously violent.”

She tore the brush through her hair, ripping through knots, relishing the pull on her scalp. At least this pain she had control over.

“Is that so. And how many pregnant women have you known?”

“Personally? None. I value the arrangement of my face just the way it is.”

She tossed the brush onto her bed and began plaiting the frazzled mess over her shoulder. “Then I suggest you keep your ridiculous assumptions to yourself.”

His expression sobered as he leaned against the bedpost, watching her vent her frustrations on her hair.

“Seriously, Granger. Why isn’t the idiot here? Does he refuse to marry you?”

_Jesus, Mary, and Joseph._

She began searching for a hairband, praying for a meteor to strike her dead.

“Give me his name,” Malfoy demanded, using the voice he donned when arguing with investors. “I'll pay the bastard a visit myself. He can’t expect to have his kicks and just walk away, leaving you in ruins.”

She blinked, turning to face him. “You’d do that for me?”

His face remained placid and cold as a frozen lake. “My lawyers will take him to the cleaners. He’ll take responsibility one way or another.”

She smirked, arms lowering to her sides. “That’s… very considerate. But wholly unnecessary. There is no father because there is no pregnancy.”

He studied her carefully. “Then what's wrong? A stomach virus doesn’t span three days.”

Hermione swallowed lightly, debating how to explain. She opened her mouth, unsure what madness was to follow when a commotion sounded downstairs. The front door opened, then slammed, footsteps racing across the entry, echoing up the staircase like a stampede. Harry's hard and hurried step was easy to discern, she guessed who the second, lighter pair belonged to.

Crookshanks leaped to the center of her bed, watching the door with gleaming eyes. Her best friend emerged through the frame first, crossing straight towards her and gripping her arms.

“Are you—”

“Okay,” she assured, placing a hand to his chest. “I actually feel much better.”

Theo entered a moment later, his arrival marked by Crookshank’s feral growl. Harry glanced over his shoulder, startled at the sound.

“Why didn’t he hiss at Malfoy?”

Draco smirked, strolling to the edge of the bed and stroking the orange feline down his back. Crookshanks arched into the touch, purring loudly and swaying in place like a drunk.

“We bonded over the sound of Granger destroying the plumbing.”

Hermione shook her head, burying her face in her hands. “Christ.”

“Besides,” Draco continued, scratching the cat under his chin, showing off for his audience. “I likely _was_ a cat in my past life. Animals can sense their own.” He glanced up wryly, meeting Harry’s perplexed gaze. “I imagine the orangutans react similarly when you visit the zoo.”

Harry scowled, releasing her to face the blonde head-on, a barrage of insults percolating on the tip of his tongue.

“I hate to interrupt such intellectual banter,” Theo spoke loudly from the doorway. “But I was told this was a medical emergency.”

Hermione pushed Harry aside, crossing to the center of the room. “Emergency is a bit of an overstatement.”

“She puked up an organ.”

“Thank you, Malfoy.”

Theo’s nose twitched in obvious annoyance. “Perhaps you can set the record straight, Granger. _After_ the comedy duo leaves the room.”

Harry shook his head, gearing up to argue, but Theo silenced him with a sharp glare. “I need to examine the patient in privacy. It’s standard practice.”

“Just to clarify,” Draco spoke up from the bed, still petting his new best friend. “You no longer operate a practice, do you Nott?”

Theo lifted his chin, shoulders drawing wide as shutters fell across his face. “That is correct, Malfoy.”

“My father said your medical license was stripped away after you were caught—”

“Your father also says the homeless should be rounded up and herded off the island like cattle. I wouldn’t put much stock in any of his claims.”

Draco surged forward, expression lethal. “Who the hell do you—”

“Enough!” Harry shouted, thunderous voice shaking the pictures on the walls. “There isn’t time for this! Malfoy, into the hall. Nott,” he met the Doctor’s gaze. “Help her.”

Draco rolled his eyes, side-stepping Theo with a pointed look as though the man was a stain on the ground. He made it to the doorway in silence before glancing back, meeting her eyes.

“If it’s a terminal illness, remember the bright side.” He smiled cheekily. “At least you’re not pregnant.”

She shook her head as Harry pushed him into the hall.

“Hands off, Potter. You owe me dry cleaning you know—”

His voice cut off as Theo slammed the door behind the pair, enclosing them in blessed quiet. He sighed heavily, turning to face her with a strange expression, half annoyance and half intrigue.

“Alright, Granger, what the hell is going on?”

She brushed the loose strands from her face, forcing her spine straight, hoping it would strengthen her claim. “Nothing serious. Just some nausea. But it’s passed.”

He stepped closer, examining her with a clinical eye. “Along with all your bodily fluid. You’re severely dehydrated, I may need to put you on an I.V.—”

“No needles.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I just got off the floor.”

He released a weary sigh, striding for the dresser. “Sit,” he commanded, gesturing to the bed.

She perched on the edge of the footboard, watching as he set his case on the counter, opening the top.

“Nausea,” he stated, reaching inside. “Anything else?”

She bit her lip, tucking her hands under her legs as he approached with a stethoscope in hand.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he deadpanned.

She glanced away, lifting an arm as Crookshanks nudged her elbow with his head, pressing against her side.

“I…” she trailed off, unsure how to frame the newest horrors.

Theo inserted the earpieces, face expectant. “You…?”

She closed her eyes, pulling Crookshanks fully into her lap and raking her nails through his fur.

“I can smell blood.” She opened her eyes, meeting Nott’s perfectly blank expression. “From across a building,” she continued, wetting her lips as Crookshanks purred loudly. “And I can hear heartbeats.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed as though peering down his microscope at her. “I see. Anything else?”

She shook her head.

“And dare I ask what constitutes a _serious_ symptom to you?” He asked.

She held his gaze. “Killing someone.”

“Hm. Good to know.” He lifted the end of the stethoscope. “Take a deep breath.”

She did as instructed, stiffening at the bite of cold metal against her skin as he pressed the flat end between the dip in her blouse. Sitting still and silent was a feat, but she managed to accomplish both impossible tasks as he listened to the rapid thrum of her heart. He stepped back a few moments later, wrapping the rubber tubing around his neck.

“So, blood cravings—”

“Scenting,” she corrected at once. “Blood _scenting_.”

“You had no wish to ingest it?”

As if on cue, her stomach growled. Loudly. Crookshanks and Theo both glanced at her middle. She flushed hot, setting the feline aside and wrapping her arms over front.

Theo arched a dark brow, taking the development in stride. “Indeed.” He crossed back to his case, speaking low, as though to himself. “You can hear your prey’s heartbeat—”

“Prey?” She asked, sitting straighter, pulse galloping wildly.

“Hm?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Oh. Well, your body is expelling its prior contents in preparation for a new nutrient source, and when added to your prior symptoms of supernatural strength and… _glowing_ , was it?”

She closed her eyes, falling back on the mattress, arms spread and braid curling around her head like a rope. “I’m screwed.”

He turned to his case. “You’re in the throes of a transition, yes.”

Crookshanks padded higher, laying next to her shoulder and licking his paw.

“Have you sprouted fangs?” Theo asked, crossing back to the bed with an unhurried gait.

The question shocked her enough to bolt her upright, much to her cat’s dismay. She pressed her fingertips to her canines, feeling along the edges. Her gums were sore. Or maybe she was just imagining it. How many of her symptoms were psychosomatic?

“No,” she whispered, relieved for a solid beat before gazing at him in horror. “Will my teeth fall out?”

“Probably.”

She deflated. Leave it to Nott to sugar coat it.

“How will I close my mouth?” She asked, remembering the oversized wax fangs she and Ginny sported one Halloween as children.

“They seem to retract. Then again, Abigail never grew fangs.” He tilted his head, lost to some deep thought. “Nor did Anastasia… at least not yet.”

“I’m thrilled to have lab rats as my predecessors.”

He blinked, snapping out of the reverie. “I’m creating cultures with your blood, but I still need access to the ashes to work towards anything substantial.”

_The jar._

She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Of course. I’d nearly forgotten.” She tipped her chin at the chair. “It’s in my bag, I meant to bring it by earlier.”

He followed her direction, opening the top flap and reaching inside, carefully extracting the wrapped bundle with both hands.

"I'd like to separate the ashes from the jar," she said, watching him set the package on the desk. "It's been through enough trauma, and I'd like to eventually bring it back to the Museum."

“The vessel is of no use to me, only its contents.”

Her stomach growled again, twisting painfully. She cringed, flinching at the deep ache.

He turned. “Nausea?”

She shook her head, flames erupting in the pit of her gut, drawing her muscles tight, like an allergic reaction that chased through each limb.

Theo drew his shoulders back. “Hunger,” he corrected.

Her eyes snapped up, tears pooling in their corners. She wiped them quickly, hands trembling as her gaze flickered to her open bag and back again.

“No,” she affirmed, forcing her spine to unbend.

He didn’t look convinced.

“Granger—”

"I'm just tired." She stapled on a smile, hoping it didn't make her look more insane than she already felt. "I'd like to sleep if that's alright."

“You need fluids.”

“I’ll try to keep some water down.” Her hands folded atop her lap to keep them from clawing at her skin. “I just… need some time. To process everything.”

He studied her in tense silence, eyes never straying from her face, as though the answer he sought was written clearly across her forehead.

“I’ll return later, after sundown,” he stated at last.

 _Sundown_.

She shivered, then tried to cover the reaction by standing and straightening her blouse, sneaking a glance at the sky. Smoky indigo.

Theo shifted. She spun to face him, watching as he moved to the bedside table to retrieve her empty glass from the night before. She blinked in confusion, tracking his movements to the bathroom until he disappeared behind the wall, turning on the sink. Her shoulders lowered as he stepped free a moment later, full glass in hand, offering it without a word.

“Thank you,” she whispered, accepting it with both hands, chest warming at the simple gesture.

He nodded, silently turning towards the desk.

“For everything you’ve done for me,” she added, staring at the rippling surface of the water. “And everything you tried doing for my father.”

He stiffened, glancing back. “Granger—” She knew he sensed the direction of her thoughts as he turned slowly, expression grave. “Hermione. Even if you… _change_ … there is still the possibility of a cure.”

She nodded, tracing the base of the glass with her thumb. “Of course.” She chanced an upward glance, hoping he couldn’t see the truth in her eyes. “I’ll see you later tonight.”

He fell perfectly still, eerily so. She wondered what he was thinking, if he knew...

And then he stepped back, glancing away and reaching for his bag. “I’ll retrieve the ashes when I come back, after you’ve had the chance to separate them.”

There was a shuffle in the hall, followed by muted bickering. She bit her lip, staring at the gap under the door, watching feet pace back and forth.

“Theo.”

He glanced over his shoulder.

“Please tell Harry I need to rest… alone.”

He pinned her with a sardonic look. “Wild horses couldn’t keep him away.”

“He’ll listen to you.”

“He hasn’t yet.”

She smiled softly. “He’ll listen to the _doctor’s_ orders.”

Theo sighed heavily, discerning her meaning, nodding once before starting for the door, pausing at the barrier.

“Sleep well, Granger.”

He departed without a backward glance, shutting the door swiftly, though she still caught a glimpse of worried green eyes in the hall. She heard Theo murmur something, followed by Harry’s booming outrage.

“ _What_?”

A hushed response followed.

“No, I need to—”

“Honestly, Potter, you’re not her fucking handmaid!” Malfoy snapped.

She sighed, leaning against the post with the glass in hand, waiting for Harry to storm inside anyway. Crookshanks perched at her side, watching the light play beneath the door. Someone gripped the knob from the outside, the brass rattling. She held her breath.

And then, silence.

The knob was released. A faint buzzing filled her ears as footsteps moved past the door, and then down the hall. The others followed suit, the procession heading towards the stairs.

Hermione exhaled sharply, tears overspilling her eyes anew. She rushed to the bathroom, setting the glass on the edge of the sink before bracing the porcelain, trying to catch her breath. Hunger gnawed away at her insides, eating straight through her center like acid. She turned on the sink, splashing cool water against her face. Nothing helped.

The entire time Theo had stood before her she’d heard his heartbeat pounding away, strong and steady. She couldn’t bear to be in the same room with him, terrified of what she’d do.

Her father’s bedroom was just next door, Harry’s was just down the hall…

_God help me._

She turned off the tap with wet fingers, chancing an upward glance. Her complexion hadn’t improved. If anything, she looked closer to death than before. But her irises had lightened half a shade, littered with more gold, bloodshot around the edges.

She lifted a hand, watching it tremble spastically.

_It’s time._

She pushed away from the sink and exited the bathroom, stumbling to her bag, reaching into the side panel and extracting the bent, folded sheet of paper. She held her breath, spreading it flat on the desk, reading the two words once more, fearing they’d somehow changed since this morning. Alas, the message remained as fixed as her fate.

She crumpled the paper in her hand and drew back, spinning a tight circle before dashing to the window, adrenaline giving her a useful burst of energy. It took some elbow grease to slide the rusted lock free, but the pane parted easily enough, autumn air whistling in, blowing through her hair and cooling her heated skin.

She pushed the glass as far as it would go before leaning over the edge, glancing in either direction, formulating a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants plan that would either result in immediate death or instant regret. Still, it was better than sitting in her room, waiting to turn into a monster. Waiting to hurt someone she loved.

Crookshanks leaped onto the ottoman beside her, meowing loudly, obviously sensing the direction of her stupidity and voicing his thoughts on the matter.

“Shh!” She hissed, leaning down and picking him up. “It’s alright,” she whispered into his fur, pressing her lips to his scruff. “I have to do this, Crooks. If I stay here I’m going to do something horrible.”

His fur absorbed her quiet sob. He twisted in her grasp, meeting her gaze head-on.

“I have to go. Just for a little while.” She pressed her forehead into his. “I'll come back.” She swallowed thickly, a tremor running the length of her body as another deep cramp twisted inside her. “If I’m able to.”

He purred loudly, as though in warning. She pressed a kiss to his smushed face and set him down, striding to the dresser as he chased at her heels. She tore open the top drawer, searching searching searching, and extracted a narrow book of matches wedged behind a bundle of candlesticks. She slid the cover open, selecting a single stick and closing the drawer, starting for the bathroom.

She loosened her fist, smoothing open the creased letter and striking the match against the surface, sulfur dioxide burning her nose as the flame sizzled to life, bathing her face in its flickering orange glow.

She held her breath, holding the missive aloft and bringing the match to the bottom corner, igniting the sheet. It wilted before her eyes, charring brown, then black, circling in on itself and flaking to the bottom on the white basin. She dropped the letter in the sink, turning on her heel and entering the bedroom as the fire steadily ate the remainder of the page.

She went straight to the window, time was against her and there was no point in delaying the inevitable. She braced either side of the frame, sitting gingerly on the ledge as Crookshanks keened anxiously below. She carefully swung her leg over the side, steadying herself as she felt along the top of the trellis with her foot.

A strange energy pulsed over her, dark but invigorating, the tightening in her stomach loosening long enough to let her find a proper foothold. She took a stuttered breath and clung to the bottom of the frame with both hands, carefully swinging her other leg over.

Time seemed to slow. Hermione swept her gaze over the room, unsure what she was looking for, what she expected to find. Alas, nothing awaited her, nothing beckoned or offered its assistance. Her eyes fastened to Crookshanks as he pawed the wall, eyes wide and frantic. She smiled sadly, imparting a silent farewell before glancing down at the side of the house, gripping the criss-cross slats of the trellis in a death grip, waiting for the wood to break apart. But the structure held, groaning softly as she began her downward trek to the moonlit grass.

And as Hermione stole away into the dark night, a shadow passed across the floor in her bedroom, drawing Crookshanks’ glittering gaze. The feline chased the dark pool across the rug and into the bathroom, over the tightly packed tile and onto the lip of the sink.

The letter continued to burn, the process slowed by the damp clinging to the bottom of the porcelain. Crookshanks' amber eyes gleamed, tail flickering back and forth as the shadow slid across the edge of the basin and along the side of the full water glass, tipping it precariously.

The glass rocked back and forth before spilling into the sink, extinguishing the flame with a hiss. Smoke curled in lapping tendrils, rising up up up, reflected in the mirror and the feline’s watchful gaze. The bulbs above the vanity flickered as wet ink bled down what remained of the page, its two simple words stretching grotesquely until they were all but unreadable.

**Ambrose. Sundown.**


	10. Protean Upbringing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding the cinematic masterpiece _Jennifer’s Body_ to the ever-growing inspo pile ;D

_“I do not love men: I love what devours them.”_  
~ André Gide, Prometheus Illbound  
.   .   .

Harry scrubbed a palm over his face before bracing his hands against the counter, doing his level best to maintain a shred of self-control. He tapped his foot in time to the silent countdown in his mind, making it from ten to five before pushing off the granite with a determined set to his jaw.

“I’m just going to check—”

“She needs _rest_ ,” Nott interjected, watching Harry’s personal destruction from the opposite end of the breakfast bar.

“I only want to peek my head—”

“Christ, Potter,” the second pain in his ass chimed in uselessly, “It’s a miracle she hasn’t suffocated under the weight of your relentless concern.”

Harry scowled, stopping in his tracks. “What are you even still doing here, Malfoy?”

“Seeing if she lives through the night, obviously. I’d like to get a head start on finding her replacement.”

Harry rounded on the blonde. “You haven’t changed a bit, still an insufferable pr—”

“Well, I can see she's in capable hands,” Nott deadpanned, reaching for his medical bag on the counter. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to it.”

Harry blinked twice before finding his voice. “Wait! You’re leaving?”

“That was my intention.”

He shook his head. “You can’t go, she might need you.”

“She _needs_ to sleep.” Nott slid his case off the granite, starting for the doorway. “If her condition changes you can send word—”

“It takes too long to get across town!” Harry blocked his path, filling the doorframe.

Nott pinned him with a withering glare. “I’m in Chelsea, Potter, not the fucking Bronx. Beyond that, I have responsibilities outside of playing nursemaid all evening.”

“Such as?” Malfoy prompted, crossing his feet at the ankles as he propped against the pantry. Nott turned his ire upon the perfectly-coiffed twat. Malfoy merely tipped his head with a grin. “I’m just curious how an unlicensed doctor finds his days so densely filled.”

“And I’m curious how a museum department head finds himself with so much free time.” Nott turned to face his adversary head-on. “Or perhaps the title’s just for show— like everything else in the renowned Malfoy empire.”

Malfoy’s smile dropped like a sinking stone as he pushed off the pantry door, advancing quickly. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You forget how far back our families go.” Nott lifted his chin, standing his ground. “You’re not the only one privy to the past misdeeds of others.”

Harry moved out of the doorway, rubbing his brow and snapping at the room at large. “ _Enough!_ ”

Nott rolled his shoulders back. “He started it.”

 _Did not_ , Malfoy mouthed, crossing his arms and slumping against the island.

Harry shook his head, then stiffened as something began pawing at his pant leg. Needle-sharp claws punctured through the fabric, hooking into flesh. He cringed back, glancing down at a pair of familiar gleaming eyes. The creature’s fiery hair stood on end, teaming with so much static he was certain the cat could double as an icebox magnet.

Harry raised a dark brow, wondering if hell had frozen over. Certainly nothing else could compel the feline to touch him. “I thought he was with Mione.”

Nott turned, peering down. “She must have let him out.”

Harry held the amber gaze, heartbeat throbbing in his ears, his wrists and neck. A loud meow echoed off the tiled floor and backsplash, providing all the confirmation he needed.

“I’m checking on her.”

Nott rolled his eyes while Malfoy voiced their shared criticism aloud. “You have a serious problem.”

“I agree, and it’s standing in my kitchen being an annoying bastard.” Harry strode from the room without a backward glance, hearing Malfoy’s low-spoken rebuke as he rounded the corner.

“He referring to you.”

Nott scoffed, and then they both faded into the background of his awareness.

Crookshanks took off in a quick sprint, blurring up the steps in a streak of orange and prompting Harry to break into a dead run, adrenaline pumping with every breath. He told himself to calm down, he was getting worked up for nothing. But he was too far gone to believe a word of it.

He rounded the landing with his heart in his throat, spotting her door ajar.

“Mione?" He asked tentatively, slowing his approach as he gripped the knob and slowly peeked around the barrier. He caught sight of her bed first, empty and untouched, duvet pulled high. Then his gaze flickered to the open window, a crisp November wind sweeping past, the perfect accompaniment to the icy chill lacing his spine.

Her cat slithered around his ankles, slipping inside with boneless flexibility and wasting no time before darting into the bathroom. The light was on, the door wide open.

“Hermione!” Harry strode forward as Crookshank’s bottlebrush tail disappeared behind the vanity.

A pair of footsteps pounded up the stairs, quickly ascending as though racing each other to the top. Harry was inside the bathroom by the time they reached the landing and holding a sopping wet scrap of paper as they entered the hall. He squinted, trying to make sense of the bleeding ink.

“Granger?” Malfoy called as he entered the bedroom.

Nott was tight at his heels, face flush with exertion, further evidence they were, in fact, racing each other. “Is that smoke?”

“She started to burn it,” Harry replied, eyes affixed to the parchment as Nott cut a path towards the bathroom.

“Burn what?”

Harry wet his lips, gaze hard-set with mounting frustration. “I’m not sure.” He glanced up, meeting Nott’s curious stare. “Can you read it?”

Theo narrowed his eyes and held out a hand as Malfoy rotated in a slow circle at the foot of the bed.

“Where the hell is she?” The blonde asked.

Harry passed the soggy missive forward. “Gone.”

“ _Gone_?” Malfoy parroted like a dimwit, whirling to face the bathroom. “Gone where?”

“Out the window.”

“Come again?”

Nott glared, bringing the paper close to his face. “Do you mind? I’m trying to focus.” He continued examining the blurred scrawl beneath the vanity lights, expression pinched.

Malfoy mirrored his countenance. “And I’m trying to wrap my head around Granger scaling the drainpipe after painting the bathroom with her stomach lining.”

“Sundown.”

Harry and Malfoy straightened, glancing at Nott and speaking in unison. “What?”

“The second word,” Theo stated, handing the sheet back to Harry. “At least I’m fairly certain. The rest is a lost cause.”

Harry’s heart skipped dangerously, the paper cold and limp between his fingers, exuding death. _Sundown_ …

Malfoy glanced between them. “What does sundown mean?”

Nott stepped free of the bathroom, lips parting—

“And _don’t_ regurgitate the Webster definition, smart ass,” Malfoy snapped, eyes narrowed in anticipation.

Theo’s nose twitched as he leaned into the wall and crossed his arms over front. "I should think the answer fairly obvious."

Malfoy tilted his head. “Excuse me for lagging a step behind. Until five minutes ago I thought Granger spent her nights organizing her highlighter collection and going to bed at eight. Now I know she likes to freebase before climbing tall buildings. It’s a bit much to wrap my head around.”

“She isn’t on drugs,” Harry stated tightly, laying the sheet over the side of the basin.

“Perhaps she should be, some antipsychotics might do her a spot of good.”

He ignored the blonde’s grating quip, exiting the bathroom and looking to Nott instead. “We need to find her. Now.”

Theo arched a brow. “You know what it means?”

“I know she doesn’t want me to know, which is reason enough to stop her.”

“You have no idea where to look.”

Harry’s hands curled at his sides, tension mounting. “She left by foot, we can catch up to her.”

“We?” Theo shook his head, dropping his arms. “I can’t stay—”

“I need you, Nott. You know what’s at stake.”

“Perhaps someone can share these mystical stakes with me,” Malfoy inserted, eyes flickering between them.

“Later,” Harry said, meeting his silver gaze. “Right now, I need you to stay with Richard.”

Malfoy blinked, processing the statement at half-speed. “What? I can’t—” He shook his head, rifling through his list of excuses. “I don’t know the first thing about—”

“He’s asleep,” Harry stated calmly, fantasizing about strangling the fucking ponce all the while. “Just make sure he doesn’t wake up and wander into the street or set fire to the house.”

“Are you certain? The latter might be an improvement—”

“This is _serious_ , Malfoy.” Harry delivered a heated glare that served its purpose marvelously.

“Fine,” Malfoy relented, gritting his teeth and squeezing in one last jab. “I’ll hold down the decrepit fort while you wrangle the shrew. Then I sincerely hope you check her into St. Mungo’s, she’s clearly off her fucking rocker.”

Harry rolled his eyes, starting for the bedroom door with a determined step before halting in the frame, glancing back.

“Nott?”

The resident Doctor-Turned-Supernatural-Scientist stood away from the wall, dragging a hand over his mouth as his eyes flickered across the floor, clearly lost to some deep thought. Harry fought to maintain composure, unable to fathom what could possibly be more important than finding Hermione.

At last, Nott seemed to come to some silent conclusion, meeting Harry’s impatient gaze without apology. “I can’t be away all night.”

Harry blinked, thrown by his peculiar wording. “Then we should start now.”

Nott took a steadying breath before crossing for the door, side-stepping both men with a low-spoken curse. Harry turned on his heel, intent on following.

“Make it fast, Potter,” Malfoy scathed. “There’s enough dust in here to choke a baby elephant.”

Harry paused his tracks, turning swiftly as inspiration struck. “In that case, let me borrow your car.”

Malfoy’s aggravation was wiped clean by a healthy dose of astonishment. He swayed in place before regaining his bearings. “You’re as delusional as Granger.”

“Hermione has nothing on me.” Harry faced him fully. “Are you giving me the keys or not?”

“It’s a fucking Phantom.”

“I feel like you’re trying to make a point.”

“It’s worth more than your life.”

“Is it worth more than Hermione’s?”

“I just upgraded the upholstery, so yes.”

Harry rolled his eyes, agitation growing. “Is it worth the headache of finding her replacement?”

Malfoy lifted his chin. “Your powers of persuasion are in rare form tonight. Remind me how you passed Speech and Debate?”

“I let Ms. Novak take shirtless photos of me behind the greenhouse.” Harry held out an open palm. “The keys.”

Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose as he fished said keys from the inner pocket of his coat and tossed them without an upward glance. His aim was true, as was Harry’s one-handed catch.

“If you so much as scratch the mirror your life is null and void.”

“Relax.” Harry turned for the door, fully preoccupied with the task ahead. “It’s been three years since I’ve totaled a car.”

He joined Nott in the hallway, catching Malfoy’s colorful farewell gesture from the corner of his eye.

* * *

Ginny tipped back her head, inhaling the crisp autumn air and holding it deep in her lungs. She basked in the medley scents wafting from the shipyard over the docks. Smoke and algae and grease. Not exactly the drugstore perfume she’d dabbed on her wrists before work each morning, but each note served as a steady reminder she was free of her gilded prison.

She twirled across the creaking slats like a spinning top, arms looping overhead as she performed a graceless pirouette, stumbling with a laugh.

Boots tread slow and heavy at her back, following several paces behind. “Are you done yet?”

Smoke assaulted her senses in a fresh onslaught, billowing steadily from his parted lips and overriding everything else. His acidic tone did nothing to diminish her smile, moonlight reflecting off her fangs. Ginny still didn’t know how to control the damn things.

“Not even close.” She spun again, leaping a stack of crates like a hurdle, arms spread and hair blowing. “I wouldn’t have lasted one more night in that crystal castle. It’s impossible to breathe, to think. Another hour and I’d have been crawling the ceiling.” She jerked back as though colliding with an invisible wall, rounding on him with bright eyes. “Wait— can we climb ceilings?”

Rabastan rubbed his brow, cigarette burning between his fingers. “Lord give me strength.”

Ginny smirked, staying put until she could fall into step beside him. “Not used to working with a partner?”

“Partner implies equality. I assure you, we aren’t partners.” His long legs made easy work of the slats, gaze narrowed on a row of boats ahead.

Ginny glared, putting her own long legs to use and maintaining his pace. “What’s your problem? Are you always this big of an asshat or am I just special?”

“Someone needs to teach you some manners.”

She tipped her head with a laugh, loud and unrestrained. “Good luck with that. If my parents and brothers couldn’t get me in line you certainly don’t stand a chance.”

“I doubt your parents and brothers were willing to knock you through a wall.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve been threatening great and terrible violence since I arrived. If you really intended to crack my skull open you’d have done it by now.”

“I’m a patient man,” he warned, flicking ashes in her direction.

Ginny laughed anew, dodging the glowing embers before weaving back to his side. “You have the shortest fuse I’ve ever seen, and that includes my brother Percy who has a nervous breakdown every time his pen runs out of ink.”

A weighted beat followed, filled by the sound of lapping water and creaking rigs.

“You do that a lot,” Rabastan replied at length, wind catching his smoke-filled breath and blowing it directly in her face.

She waved the cloud away with a scowl. “Check your astronomical ego?”

“Talk about your old family.”

Ginny’s heart skipped, as did her step, nearly face-planting her over an uneven seam in the boards. “Old?”

“You heard Bella.” He glanced sideways, flicking more ashes. “You belong to her now.”

Ginny shook her head. “She told me I was free to visit them as often as I like. I just need to learn to control my abilities.”

His answering laughter was low and dark, crawling over her skin like centipedes. Her only reprieve was when he brought the cigarette to his lips, taking another long drag.

“I would never give up my family,” she declared with conviction, staring hard at his moonlit profile. “Not for anything.”

“Not even eternal life?”

“I didn’t do this for eternal life.”

“Hm.” Disbelief seeped from his pores, causing her teeth to clench. “Eternal beauty then.”

Her gaze narrowed. “If you weren’t such a prick I might be flattered.”

“It wasn’t a compliment. Our beauty amounts to nothing but a glittering lure disguising a rusted hook.”

“Is that a quote from your poetry journal?”

The corner of his lips pulled higher as he led the way onto the connecting dock, revealing another endless row of commercial vessels.

“How many brothers do you have?”

“Six,” she replied automatically, gazing fixedly ahead. She would always count Bill among them. Always. “All older.”

“That explains it.”

“My witty repartee?”

“Your fearless stupidity.”

Ginny shrugged, the criticism rolling off her feathers with ease. “That describes Charlie to a T.” Her eyes gleamed with unfurling memories. “I suppose they’ve each rubbed off on me in their own way.”

She felt Rabastan glance at her from the corner of his eye, refusing to bestow his full attention upon her.

“Be careful with that,” he said, flicking the cigarette into the water. “Don’t mention them around her.”

Her pulse quickened. “Why not? Bella knows I plan to stay in contact—”

“She lied. Get used to it.”

Ginny swallowed, hands twitching at her sides. “I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do.” He met her eye at last, the intensity of his gaze causing her to veer off course, nearly colliding with a wooden pillar before dodging right. “You were drawn to her for that very reason. The danger, the power. You know what she’s capable of, even if you haven’t witnessed it first hand.”

Her complexion paled, lips thinning as she tried to cram her surging thoughts back down. Alas, she was spared from the chaos of her mind as he nodded at something in the distance.

“We’re here.”

Ginny blinked, whipping her head around and recalling their original purpose for coming. She wet her lips, trying to focus. “So what’s the plan?”

“Simple.” Rabastan slowed to a stop behind a metal storage shed, out of view from the edge of the dock and neighboring pier. “You stand where you are and wait until I’m done.”

Ginny stopped beside him, glaring through the shadows. “Bella sent me here to _help_ , not play watchdog.”

“It’s cute you think I trust you to stand watch.”

She propped her hands on her hips. “She wants you to train me.”

“She wants to keep me in line.”

“Is there a difference?”

Now it was his turn to scowl, though he wore the expression so often she hardly recognized him without it.

Ginny cocked her head like a bird, severely unintimidated. “You think _this_ is bad? What do you think she’s gonna do when she finds out you stuck me on the sidelines?”

“And who’s going to tell her?”

“I am, if and when she asks. I can’t lie to her.” She arched an auburn brow. “Can you?”

He lifted his chin, eyes glinting crimson. She’d learned through dedicated trial and error he turned even more menacing moments before relenting. Ginny waited out the tense silence, fighting back a smirk as the bitter surrender fell at her feet.

“You’re only to do _what_ I say _when_ I say it. Break either of those cardinal rules and you forfeit both our lives.” He bared his teeth in a mirror image of the jackal inked along the side of his neck.

Ginny bit her lip, fighting back a laugh. She knew he’d backhand her to high heaven if she busted a gut during one his Serious Speeches.

“Trust me when I say the man we’re about to screw over is _not_ someone you want to be caught double-crossing. The punishments he likes to hand down leave our kind begging for death.”

“Sounds like a real prince.” She tapped her foot. “Are we doing this sometime tonight or do you actually like the smell of barnacle shit?”

Rabastan shook his head, darkness seeping into the red of his gaze as he peered around the shed. “Rule number one: keep your mouth shut.”

“Are there going to be many more? I should probably write them down—”

“Shut up!” He hissed, grabbing her arm with lightning speed and pulling her behind a stack of crates, deeper into the shadows.

Ginny inhaled sharply, senses overwhelmed.

She heard the heartbeat first. Steady and rhythmic. Next came the scent. Oily food and liquor and sweat. The thud of footfalls reached her last until finally, the man came into view, pacing the dock at a leisurely gate, eyes fixed on the cargo ships.

Ginny wet her lips, unable to look away. It was the first human she'd encountered since her transition and so far she _hadn’t_ tried ripping out his throat. Weren’t balloons and confetti supposed to drop?

Still, her mouth was salivating. She hadn’t had a decent meal since her first night. The fault was entirely her own so she refused to complain, but her body was starting to feel the repercussions with crippling swiftness.

Ginny had no idea she’d started rounding the side of the shed until Rabastan caught her arm and hauled her back with enough force to wrench her arm from the socket. If she’d still been human. As it was, all she felt was a sore rotator cuff.

“Get your fucking head straight,” he hissed, breath reeking of cloves and nicotine.

She jerked free of his death grip, rubbing her shoulder and battling a damning blush. She didn’t give two diamond-studded shits what Lestrange thought about her but knew he’d eagerly recount every last one of her mistakes to Bella. And Ginny most _certainly_ cared about her Queen's opinion. After all, the woman had the power to make their lives heaven or hell. And it seemed Ginny was going to be around for a while yet.

She took a steadying breath but only succeeded in inhaling another heady cloud of the human’s scent. It saturated the back of her tongue and beckoned her forward, though she dug deep into her will-power and kept her heels firmly locked.

“Night patrol?” She whispered.

Rabastan shook his head. “Private security. Riddle’s taken extra precautions this time.” He peeked around the wall once more, prompting Ginny to sidle closer, eager to get another look.

“He thinks humans can stop us?” She asked.

“No.” He tracked the man’s progress. “But they’re expendable bait; if they turn up missing or dead he’ll know we’re targeting his ships.”

She glanced up sharply. “But… we’re not going to hurt them, right?”

Rabastan offered no response beyond gazing at her like she was an idiot. Ginny bristled but refused to relent.

“I mean, can’t you just… hypnotize them?”

He inhaled deeply, glancing to the dock as he undoubtedly fantasized about drowning her. “Not to that degree.”

“But I’ve seen Bella—”

“Bella is powerful,” he clipped. “She can make a man walk off a cliff with a smile on his face. That’s why she’s in charge of the Eastern Territories.”

Ginny wasn’t certain whether she should feel unnerved or intrigued, overtaken by both in equal measure. Nevermind the latter part of his statement; she still had no fucking clue how the Vampire Wild Kingdom hierarchy worked. She didn’t mind referring to Bella as her Queen —she may have even taken perverse pleasure in it— but Ginny drew the line at _your royal highness_ or whatever other cock-stroking titles were traded among the undead ranks.

Creaking slats drew her attention back to their current predicament. Ginny leaned forward, gazing over Rabastan’s leather-clad shoulder in time to watch the guard turn the corner. He disappeared from sight but his heartbeat continued to thrum in the distance, scent carrying on the salty breeze.

Rabastan’s eyes narrowed. “Go. Now. Third ship from the right.”

Ginny didn’t wait to be told twice. She darted forward, supremely relieved she hadn’t been ordered to snap any necks. For one, she wasn’t wearing the right neck-snapping outfit, and two, she refused to engage in physical violence outside of self-defense, a pastime Ginny was intimately familiar with thanks to the boys in her life.

Charlie had taught her to spar in their backyard while Harry showed her the basics of boxing at the local gym. Meanwhile, Bill took her to the shooting range until she could hit her target with one eye closed. Ginny was confident in her ability to protect herself should the need arise but _refused_ to kill a man over some petty vampire turf war she didn’t even understand. She hadn’t engaged in politics as a human and had no intention of starting now.

Rabastan slipped out from behind the shed and crossed the diagonal beams in a blur of motion, zipping past her sprinting form and arriving at the other end of the dock in a chilling gust. Ginny glared, never one to be outdone, but she wasn’t capable of matching his speed. _Yet_.

She passed beside the row of towering cargo vessels, ropes as thick as her arm and cleat knots as large as her head. She ducked low and crept fast, moving on tip-toes to minimize sound. A buzz of adrenaline electrified her spine, sharpening her senses and transporting her back to all the nights she'd broken into the scrap metal yard with the twins in tow, helping procure materials for whatever new invention struck their fancy.

She lingered in the memory for as long as possible, and then she reached Rabastan’s side and was torn from the calming waters of her past by his turbulent gaze. Ginny opened her mouth but before she could utter so much as an _oomf_ Rabastan clamped a hand over her lips and dragged her around the side of the ship.

She stiffened, then thrashed, struggling against his unshakable hold. He hissed into her ear as footsteps echoed across the adjacent pier and she stilled, focusing on the heartbeat, then the scent. A different man from before but undoubtedly another guard. Ginny couldn’t see his steady approach but knew he’d be upon them soon.

Rabastan released her mouth, arm lingering across her waist as they searched their surroundings, trapped between the water and towering wall of the cargo ship. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. If the guard spotted them Ginny knew Lestrange would kill him. Her pulse throbbed, panic making her dizzy. And then Rabastan gripped her chin and tipped her face up.

She followed the silent path of his gaze to the deck rail twenty-feet above and blinked, then met his gaze and lifted her brow to convey her thoughts on the matter. _No fuckin’ way._

He arched a matching brow in response. _Way_.

She rose onto the balls of her feet and choked down a squeal of delight as he sank to one knee and interlocked his fingers, creating a basket with his palms. Ginny gripped his shoulders and stepped up, barely making contact with his hands before she was launched into the crisp night like a missile.

Her arms windmilled and feet kicked as her body soared five feet above the deck, defying gravity for a breathless beat. She spotted the second guard beside the ship as he continued his evening stroll, perfectly oblivious to the drunken acrobatics taking place behind the rigging.

She landed in a low pounce and managed to stick it, pressing both hands to her mouth to stifle a bubbling laugh. Her eyes gleamed as she rose to her full height and spun, eager to share her excitement, only to realize there was no one around to witness her aerial gymnastics. Her shoulders deflated as she crept to the edge of the deck and glanced down, signaling Rabastan.

He crouched low and launched past the hull as though his boots were spring-loaded, catching the rail and flipping over the side with effortless poise. He squared his shoulders and straightened his jacket with a smirk. Ginny rolled her eyes. _Show off._

The guard finally passed the bow of the ship. They tracked his steady progress with glinting eyes.

“That was easy,” she whispered, watching the man turn the same corner as his predecessor.

“We’ve barely begun.”

Despite his ominous foreshadowing Ginny’s face split with a beaming grin, thrilled to be doing _something_ besides aimlessly wandering the marble hallways for hours on end.

Rabastan met her gaze and shook his head, seeming to finally realize the futility of trying to intimidate her. He pushed past without preamble, still mustering the energy to be an ass. “Nice jump.”

Her smile flipped on its head. “You’re the one who overshot me! You should have _seen_ my landing—”

“Be quiet.”

Ginny huffed, fists clenched as she stomped forward. They crossed the upper deck and started down a narrow stairwell, journeying deeper into the shadowy interior. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, everything cast in a red tint. Corners appeared sharper, reflections brighter. The new ability infused her with a buzzing rush of adrenaline. She leaped the bottom step and landed beside Rabastan with an eager bounce, a closed door blocking their path ahead.

He ignored her antics and tested the handle, neither vampire surprised when it refused to budge.

“I learned to pick a lock when I was nine,” Ginny said, tilting her head as she sized up the barrier.

“I’m sure you did.” His tone suggested he'd sooner believe she walked the surface of the moon.

“I admit it’s not exactly heart surgery. All you need is a tension wrench, a couple paperclips and a steady hand.”

He blinked, gaze flickering sideways.

"The trick is in the second paperclip," she continued, focused on the handle. "Hardly anyone rakes the pins first. It's an extra step but cuts down on time and saves your wrist, especially if you're dealing with a five-lever mortice lock."

Rabastan lifted a brow, studying her anew. “I thought you worked as a secretary for an insurance claim adjuster.”

“Typist by day; petty criminal by night. What can I say, I’m a modern woman.”

The corner of his mouth rose and, for once, it wasn’t at her expense. “Unfortunately, I seem to have left my tension wrench at home.”

“Amateur.” Ginny tossed her hair, feeling more in her element by the minute. “I take it you had another method in mind?”

He offered no reply, merely turned and gripped the top of the frame before driving both feet forward, kicking the barrier clear off its hinges. She jolted at the suddenness, unable to keep sight of his blurring form as he released the ledge and flew inside the dark interior, catching the door before it crashed into the opposite wall.

“Not as elegant as paper clips,” he stated, propping the busted wood against a pillar.

Ginny crossed her arms, marginally impressed and thoroughly pissed. “What happened to lying low? When waterboarding Boss Man searches the ship and finds the door blasted in half he’ll know we were here.”

Rabastan backed into the shadows until only the glowing orbs of his eyes remained. “I guess we’ll have to make sure there's no ship left for him to search.”

She blinked… and then smiled, eagerly following him inside.

Rabastan led her through the winding interior, hallways tight and filled with darkness. He kicked down another door, the explosion of noise easily absorbed by the walls, and by the time they reached the third barrier Ginny could barely contain herself, bounding forward as he prepared to break it open.

“Wait!”

Rabastan spun, shoulders tensing at her sudden outburst. Her heart skipped as he fell into a fighting stance, the automatic response reminding her of Harry. She absently rubbed her aching chest and pressed on.

“I want to do one.”

His fists lowered. “What?”

“You broke down the last two, this one is mine,” she explained, unable to keep the petulant whine out of her voice.

“You’re fucking with me.”

Ginny dropped her hand, the pain finally abated. “Only in your dreams.”

He pinned her with a murderous glare. “Rule number two: don’t slow me down for the sake of your own useless amus—”

“Christ, I’ve already forgotten the first half. Can I get the bulleted version?”

He surged forward, grabbing her arms and slamming her against the wall before she was able to process the movement. Her skull cracked the plaster as a shocked gasp escaped her throat. But she was more jarred than hurt, rising anger overriding discomfort. Ginny snarled and twisted while his hands kept her easily pinned.

“Don’t test me,” he warned, eyes blazing.

The grit in his voice gave her pause, more frightening than the words themselves. Ginny went limp in his hold, swallowing heavily and catching her breath. “That’s easier to remember.”

He searched her face in the darkness, his eyes so close to her own she could see the expanding pools of ink at their centers. And then he released her, stepping back as her feet hit the ground with a hollow thump.

Ginny pushed away from the wall and rubbed the back of her head. If she’d been human the blow would’ve undoubtedly concussed her. Instead, she was left with a tender bruise and the nagging knowledge he could have done a lot worse. Perhaps next time he would.

She turned, examining the crater her skull left behind. “Is my head really that big?”

His rubbed a hand over his face before busting down the third door with a mighty kick. It went flying into the darkness of the room and crashed against an unseen barrier.

Ginny narrowed her gaze as she peered inside, recognizing the hazy outline of boxes and not much else. Rabastan’s sight seemed sharper, allowing him to seamlessly navigate the interior until he switched on a hanging lantern. The flame flickered to life, bathing the room in orange glow and revealing a shit load of wooden crates.

Ginny edged forward, inspecting the nearest stack. The lids were stamped with bright red ink, the same initials on each.

“E.I.C.?” She read aloud, running her fingers across the logo.

“East India Company,” he supplied, stopping before a crate at hip-level and tearing off the lid, tossing it aside without concern.

Ginny hopped out of the projectile’s path and glared at his profile until her curiosity won out. She sidled closer, peering inside the box as he lifted away a layer of straw and let it pile at their feet. She held her breath, gripping the edge of the crate as the contents finally came into view…

She deflated.

_Spices?_

Correction—

A _fuck_ ton of spices.

Ginny reached inside, selecting a glass bottle and holding it to the light, inspecting the label. “Cumin?” She met his eye. “We’re risking life and limb for chili ingredients?”

He reached into the crate and gripped the edge of the spice tray, lifting it away and dropping the bottles with a crash between their feet.

Ginny raised her boot, shaking off broken glass and loose powder before glancing back to the box, eyes flaring wide. “ _Hello_ , beautiful.”

She tossed the bottle of cumin over her shoulder and reached for the jug of dark brown liquid instead, carefully extracting the vessel with both hands and admiring its label. The sticker bore no identifying brand or ingredients, only the proof and alcohol by volume.

Still, Ginevra Molly Weasley knew whiskey when she saw it.

Her thumb traced the striking red bird adorning the front. It looked like it was on fire.

“India makes whiskey?” She asked, turning the bottle over in her hands and watching the light shimmer through the bottom.

“These are from a Kentucky distillery. It’s railed into Virginia where they forge the stamps and ship logs before sailing it up the coast.”

“Nifty.” She admired the masterpiece a moment longer before clutching it to her chest and glancing up mournfully. “We have to destroy it all?”

“Every last bottle.”

“Every _last_ last bottle?”

His eyes narrowed in warning. She squeezed the neck of the jug tighter. “I’m not testing you, I just really like whiskey.”

Rabastan rubbed the flesh between his brows before moving to the next crate. “You _used_ to like whiskey. It won’t taste the same anymore.”

Ginny deflated for the second time, studying the amber liquid in final farewell before releasing the bottle with a weary sigh. She strode to a stack of crates and began tearing off the lids. Her mood was temporarily restored by the thrill of ripping through wood and nails with her bare hands, the distraction lasting a few minutes more until his voice punctured the bubble like a knife.

“That’s enough.”

She stepped away from the mess, jolting as he started grabbing bottles and shattering them across every surface. The sweet aroma soaked into the straw and spices and created a peppery scent that made her nose twitch.

Ginny grabbed a bottle and threw it against the wall with a cringe, mourning the loss even as the glass exploded in a satisfying burst. Liquor splashed her arms and legs and soaked into her clothing as though clinging for dear life.

 _Clink_.

She stiffened at the distinctive flick of a lighter and spun. Her heart lodged firmly in her throat as Rabastan struck the thumbwheel and a narrow flame hissed to life, reflecting in his red eyes as he held her gaze over the top. Ginny swallowed thickly, well aware she stood at the center of a glittering pool of liquor, a breathing bullseye.

The flame continued to hiss and flicker between them, dancing wildly as her labored breath traveled the length of the room. There was a steel drum trapped inside her chest and she was certain he could hear its pounding beat, just as she was certain he planned to throw the lighter at her feet, setting her ablaze for his own twisted amusement. Fire could kill their kind, at least according to Bella, and Ginny wasn’t keen on testing that claim.

Another agonizing moment passed before the corner of his mouth lifted, eyes teaming with amusement. “I’d move if I were you.”

She bolted to his side, relief flooding her system in a heady rush as glass crunched beneath her boots. Meanwhile, Rabastan withdrew a silver case from his jacket and lifted it to his mouth, pulling a cigarette free with his lips and lighting the tip. He inhaled steadily and tipped his head back, holding the smoke deep in his lungs before releasing the cloud in a long stream.

Ginny wet her lips, watching the blue-tinged smoke twist and curl outward, steadily expanding through the air with grasping tendrils. And then metal flashed before her eyes, jolting her back to reality. She tracked the arcing path of the lighter as he tossed it into the center of the room.

The amber pool ignited, the floor bursting into flames.

Ginny edged back, watching the fire spread with desperate, roaring hunger, defying gravity as it climbed over crates and up the walls, spilling across the ceiling in rolling waves. She tipped her head back and luxuriated in the warm glow, stretching her limbs like a cat basking in sunlight.

Despite the sizzling heat at her front, Ginny’s arms erupted in gooseflesh, the unsettling feeling of being watched prickling at the top of her spine. Her focus drifted, drawn by some invisible force until it was caught by Rabastan. Firelight danced across his face and sent shadows into the crevices, darkness pooling beneath his cheeks and eyes until a truly sinister visage remained. Black smoke billowed from the ceiling, the roar of the flames deafening, but Ginny remained trapped and breathless by his unwavering stare.

“One bottle,” he said at last, lifting the cigarette to his lips and shattering the dark spell.

Ginny blinked, his words slow to process as she shed the previous moment like snakeskin. And then his meaning clicked and she beamed, bouncing excitedly. “Really?”

“Don't make me regret it.”

She shook her head quickly, hair swinging with the motion. “I won’t!” She raced to the nearest crate not yet swallowed by flames and snatched up a gleaming bottle, holding it tight and twirling with a laugh. “I promise to be on my best behavior for the rest of the night!”

He raised a dark brow, flicking his cigarette into the inferno. “So the key to your obedience is smuggled whiskey.”

She settled at last, cradling the bottle in her arms. “Any contraband, really.”

The smoke thickened, nearly opaque as it fell upon them like a black storm cloud, hazing her vision in turn. But not before she saw a truly miraculous sight, more astounding than bigfoot and the loch ness monster combined…

Rabastan smiled, teeth glittering in the light. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ginny’s jaw unhinged at the disturbing sight, sending the elusive creature back into hiding with her dumbfounded expression alone. He rolled his eyes and grabbed her wrist, dragging into the hall as the ceiling collapsed behind them.

* * *

Anastasia wandered aimlessly between the shelves, perusing their strange and gleaming contents with a curious eye, careful not to touch anything. Theo had been _very_ insistent about that.

Don’t leave and don’t touch.

She’d repeated the instructions five times after his departure, making certain they’d stuck. It seemed her mind was having a hard time holding onto things. She found herself studying the same items again and again before recalling her previous examinations.

_Theo told me my mind was damaged._

Wait… why was it damaged? She bit her blue lip, struggling for the tendril of memory. Oh yes…

_I was in an accident._

No sooner had the notion entered her mind than it slipped free. She continued along the shelf until her gaze reached an upturned beaker, catching sight of her reflection in the glass.

Anastasia tilted her head, pressing cold fingertips against her cheek as an odd sensation took hold, a lightening of being that made her sway precariously while spots appeared before her vision. And then, all of a sudden, she was staring at a very different version of herself, so vivid in detail it seemed as though she faced another person entirely. A familiar stranger with bright skin and painted lips, golden hair pinned high in a glittering clip and ruffled lace wrapping an unblemished neck. The figure traced a delicate hand over the pale column, her flesh free of the blue and purple markings Anastasia wore across her own throat.

“Christ!” A phantom voice called from somewhere in the distance. “You’ve been staring at that mirror for over an hour! You look _fine_! Now haul ass or we’ll be late!”

Anastasia gasped and spun, the ghostly images dissipating to smoke as the laboratory took shape before her eyes. There was no one behind her, nothing to account for the strange voice…

She returned to the beaker and leaned in close, searching the pale reflection staring back at her, silently willing the other face to return. Her stomach tightened, a painful knot forming at its center and drawing her entire focus with it. She pressed a hand to her middle and cringed, the last few moments already fading from her sluggish mind.

Anastasia backed away from the shelf at last, her pain slowly dissipating, and shuffled to the large table at the center of the floor, filled with bubbling beakers and glowing liquids, a treasure trove of color and sound.

_Treasure trove?_

She scratched the side of her head, hair dry and stiff beneath her fingertips, and wondered what the words meant and why her mind decided to conjure them. But she quickly grew bored with the thought and opted to lean over a boiling concoction instead, rearing back as a cloud of pungent steam filled her vision. She blinked twice, processing the experience, and then lifted a tentative hand over the top of the cloud, wiggling her fingers. The steam tickled her palm, light as feathers.

_Feathers?_

She searched the ransacked halls of her memory.

_Feathers are… soft. I think._

She dropped her hand and moved further along the table, stopping before a large and peculiar instrument, tilting her head either which way as she prodded her mind for what it could possibly be. A faint voice whispered from the far recesses of her subconscious. _Microscope_.

“Microscope,” she repeated, smiling as the name clicked into place with stunning clarity. Yes, she knew what a microscope was. You stared into it… though she wasn’t sure why.

Anastasia tucked a limp lock of hair behind her ear and leaned down, carefully aligning her face to the eyepiece and peering in. But all she saw was darkness. There was a multitude of dials and switches along the base but she dare not touch them. The instrument looked very expensive, which probably meant it was very important to Theo. Her cousin was all she had, her only connection to the outside world and her former self. She didn’t want to upset him, to prove an even greater burden than she undoubtedly was already.

A faint rustling drew Anastasia to her full height. She turned, searching out the source of the disturbance, clouded eyes focusing on a tall shelf along the opposite wall. The imposing structure was cloaked in shadow, a white sheet covering its middle shelf awash with green light, a pulsing beacon she was hopeless to ignore. Anastasia edged forward, the noise growing in intensity with every step until the entire sheet began to sway, the item it concealed rattling loudly. She stopped just before it, studying the covering intently before glancing over her shoulder to the landing.

The seconds ticked by with dreadful slowness as she waited for Theo to appear and pin her beneath an accusing glare. But she made it to ten and nothing happened, and she couldn’t remember what came after ten so she glanced forward and traced the hem of the sheet with a nervous fingertip.

_Don’t leave and don’t touch._

The rattling grew louder, the mysterious item practically bouncing atop the shelf as it cried out for attention. And suddenly, her hand was acting of its own volition, gripping the sheet and tugging it away without leave from her mind. Anastasia gasped at her own betrayal, then exhaled swiftly as the trembling cage was revealed. She blinked, mind sparking with recognition for the squirming creatures behind the bars.

_What are they?_

She dropped the fabric to her bare feet and leaned down for closer examination.

_I know this… think, Anastasia, think…_

She swallowed heavily as the creatures climbed over one another, scaling the metal grate as though trying to get to her.

_Mice!_

She bounced with excitement. Yes, she was certain that’s what they were. Except… they appeared quite different from the image her mind conjured at the unassuming word.

“Hello there,” she said politely, causing them to settle atop the wood shavings, red eyes fixed upon her. “It looks like we’re having the same kind of day.”

She studied their torn flesh and mangled limbs… and then her stomach growled.

Loudly.

Anastasia drew back swiftly, pressing a hand to her middle as it tightened with ache. But this hunger pain was unlike the others, deeper, sharper, causing her to double over with a keening cry. And still it didn’t fade, only worsened, until she was on her hands and knees panting atop the cement floor. Her hands were braced apart, vision clouded by mist when acidic bile rose high in her throat without prompt or warning, expelling in a sudden and powerful outpour.

Black sludge cascaded from her blue lips like a fountain, rapidly pooling beneath her spasming body and splattering her face and arms. Her entire frame was wracked by powerful heaves, nose and eyes burning with the chemical stench. She was dimly aware of the mice going crazy, squealing and shaking the bars of their prison as though equally affected by the sight and smell.

At last, the flow stemmed. Anastasia gagged on the last stringy tendril and pushed away from the mess, scrambling back on trembling limbs. Her muscles felt heavy and sore, stomach painfully empty, twisting in on itself with angry protest. She wrapped her arms around her middle, black dripping off her chin and staining her borrowed shirt.

The mice continued to rage, pushing their cage to the edge of the shelf, but Anastasia couldn’t pull her eyes away from congealing mess.

_All that came out of me?_

Her stomach ached something fierce, filled with searing flame. Her head tipped back, gaze centered on the empty landing above, staring through the metal grate and watching the door, willing it to open.

_Theo…_

She tried to stand but her stomach kept her confined to the floor for several minutes more, all the while the black pool slowly spread. She needed to clean it, needed to change clothes—

_I need to eat._

Anastasia blinked, her entire body throbbing at the thought. The pain in her abdomen lessened, allowing her to unfurl at last.

_Eat…_

Her stomach growled its agreement. She clutched the edge of the table, pulling up on trembling knees as she examined the landing with new purpose. The mice seemed to detect the direction of her thoughts, pushing the cage closer to the edge as she took a staggering step towards the stairs.

_Don’t leave and don’t touch._

She wet her lips, tasting bitter bile and wiping her lips with her forearm.

_Theo said he was bringing supper…_

But she couldn’t wait.

Anastasia gripped the railing tight, paying no mind when her fingertips indented the metal. Her feet were slow and sluggish as she trudged upward, stumbling near the top, bare toes catching on the same step Theo tripped over during his hasty departure earlier in the night. But her clouded gaze remained fixed on the metal door, unable to blink, to think beyond the unrelenting hunger infusing her bones.

_Don’t leave and don’t touch._

She reached the catwalk, swaying in place before lurching to the door, bracing both hands against the cold frame. Her fingers drifted to the knob, squeezing until her knuckles turned white.

_Don’t leave and don’t touch._

She turned it. Or tried to, but the fixture refused to budge. The mice screamed, shrill and manic, and then the cage tipped over the edge and hit the cement with a might clatter that jolted her. Hard.

Anastasia reared back from the door, another tidal wave of phantom images crashing overhead and tilting the ground beneath her feet.

Strong hands gripped her arms, dragging her down a long and dark hallway as her dirtied feet kicked the air. She screamed and cried, clawing frantically at the restraining grip. Her hazy vision caught sight of a dark beard and even darker eyes before she was tossed like a ragdoll, flying through an open doorway and hitting the opposing wall with bone-breaking force. Her cracked lips parted with a pained cry, the air cold and still around her, and then the hulking figure was gripping the door and slamming it shut on her broken pleas.

“No!” She pushed off the wall and fell against the barrier, banging against the metal and pulling uselessly at the handle. “Please! Please let me go! _Please_ —”

Anastasia sucked in a sharp breath, ripping off the real knob of the very real door standing before her. She blinked rapidly, staring at the item in her hand as she tried to reconcile what just happened. Her toes curled over the metal grate as she glanced around warily, realizing she was still atop the landing, still alone in the dark laboratory.

Her fingers uncurled and the twisted handle fell with a clatter. She wet her lips and stepped forward, tracing the hole in the door before slipping her hand inside, feeling for the metal latch. It fell inside the frame, useless without a handle to secure it in place, and the barrier groaned wide. A fresh surge of energy infused her entire being as she pulled the door open the rest of the way.

An onslaught of sights and sounds and smells assaulted her, but the outside world was still blocked by a metal gate. She stared fixedly through the gaps in the accordion, shadowed brick lining either side of whatever enclosure lie ahead. She curled her fingers through the bars and pulled, bending back the frame until she was able to scurry over the top.

Her feet met damp, cold cement as she took in her new surroundings, eyes wide and unblinking. Lights were ahead, fuzzy and bright, the sky above black and endless. Noise filled the air from every direction. She started to step forward, only to hesitate.

_Don’t leave and don’t touch._

She shifted anxiously pressing a hand to her middle… And then it hit her. Full force and unmistakable.

The Scent.

Anastasia journeyed ahead without further ado, lost to the hunger, to the all-encompassing task of abating this awful yearning and never-ending ache.

She reached the mouth of the alley within seconds, disappearing around the wall with silent footsteps, oblivious to the bloody, mangled mice following in her wake.

* * *

Parvati pulled at the front of her blouse, one loose button away from spilling over the gaping neckline. The fabric had no give, seams pulled taut across her chest.

“So… what’s my role again?” Her perpetually confused shadow asked from the other side of the alley.

“To stay out of my way.”

She could feel his glare scorching across the side of her face as she continued adjusting her top.

“You expect me to stand quietly in the corner while you wander the streets dressed like a—” He stopped short, choked by his own stupidity.

Parvati glanced up with a raised brow, adjusting her sleeves. “Dressed like a… ?”

Weasley chewed on the inside of his cheek, flushing red to the tips of his ears. “Lav never dresses like this.”

“These are her clothes, fuckwit.”

“I know, but they look different on you.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Your…” Weasley’s face turned a blistering scarlet, his discomfort a palpable force as he struggled to keep his eyes fixed above her chin.

She perched her hands on her hips, inadvertently pushing her chest forward. “Tits?”

He coughed, or perhaps gagged on his tongue. Parvati really didn't care, as long as he stayed out of her way while doing it. She set to work on the painfully tight skirt, feeling like a sausage casing set to burst.

“Fine, Patil,” he bit out a moment later. “Do whatever the fuck you want.”

“I intend to.”

He shook his head, pushing off the brick and starting for the sidewalk. “I’ll be on the corner of Washington.”

“Cool story.”

He paused, glancing back with a meaningful look. “Remember, you’re supposed to entice a man to take his pants off, not gird his loins.”

Parvati pressed a hand to the metal sheeting of a delivery gate for balance, adjusting the strap of her heel. “The day I take seduction advice from you is the day I undergo a voluntary lobotomy.”

He released a hissing breath, the cloud quickly absorbed by the frigid night air. His lanky figure disappeared next, swallowed whole by the billowing steam of the sidewalk grates. Parvati listened to his footsteps fade around the corner until at last, she stood alone in the pulsing red light.

The neon DELI sign burned brightly overhead, one of the few establishments left open at this time of night. Even so, the Meatpacking District was alive with action, every street corner filled with scantily clad women of every shape and ethnicity. They braved the autumn chill in fishnets and heels, dutifully pacing the curbs as they played with their short hair and long necklaces, anything to entice a passerby, anything to kill the long, monotonous hours ahead. Others propped against lamp posts and lit their cigarettes, watching as friends reapplied lipstick in broken compact mirrors.

At first glance, the sheer magnitude of streetwalkers seemed astounding. But the night was young and the roads were soon to be flooded anew.

The neighborhood was crowded by nearly three hundred slaughterhouses and packing plants, calling thousands of blue-collar workers to their lines each day. Easy pickings for hookers and hustlers alike. Drug and dice dealers trolled the alleys in eager anticipation of the changeover, everyone waiting for second shift to come spilling through the factory doors.

Parvati wanted to be _off_ the streets when that time came. Which meant leaving the safety of her alley. Her eyes flickered to the corner Weasley claimed to be stationed at, searching out his ghastly red hair. She didn’t see him and made a concerted effort to ignore the sense of festering dread knotting her stomach.

_Weasley is useless. If you’re relying on him for protection you’re already dead._

Her fists curled as she started forward, exiting the mouth of the alley with short and wobbly steps, tight skirt and narrow heels slowing her progress. In truth, Lavender’s clothing was never tight on _her_ , store mannequin that she was. But Parvati was built quite differently, blessed with curves and cursed by an ample chest that made most modern fashion quite burdensome. Perhaps it was fortunate she spent the majority of her time sporting a woolen jumpsuit or gypsy costume, finding little reason to waste her money on the flashy flapper wear taking the city by storm.

Though tonight she found herself cursing her limited selection, perusing her closet at length before finally throwing in the towel and visiting her roommate's bedroom. Lavender’s wardrobe was stylish and tasteful, hardly denoting her chosen profession. But by the time Parvati squeezed into the only garments fitting her chest and hips the clothing had transformed, making her look every bit the streetwalker she now impersonated.

Alas, she continued her path ahead, careful to avoid the sidewalk grates. If her heel jammed she’d have to flag down the Fuckweasel; there was absolutely no way she could bend over without splitting every single seam.

_Just get in and get out._

Parvati lifted her chin, shoulders drawing wide as she cast her gaze across the sea of faces lining either curb. Most of the women stood alone, eyes peeled for customers, but some were clustered in small groups, talking animatedly and laughing sharply. Parvati debated which to target, who would be more forthcoming.

Just then, as if sensing eyes upon her, a woman glanced up from a lively discussion with her grin still affixed. She met Parvati’s stare and instantly soured. Parvati blinked, cheeks heating as the other members of the group began turning their heads, faces pinching one by one.

Parvati glanced forward and quickened her step, keen on finding information, not a brawl. She passed a young woman playing with a feathered boa and slowed her steps in the hopes of striking a conversation. But as soon as the stranger gazed up Paravti’s hopes were dashed. The girl openly sneered before turning away, the message clear.

Parvati crossed her arms —as much as the tight sleeves would allow— feeling painfully self-conscious. Her outfit was revealing but hardly scandalous compared to the majority of what populated the street.

_Maybe they know I’m not one of them…_

She swallowed nervously, forcing her eyes and feet ahead, refusing to balk.

"Don't take it personally."

Her steps faltered at the rusty voice.

Parvati paused beside a newspaper dispenser, glancing to the mouth of a nearby alley. A woman leaned against the brick, cigarette dangling between blood-red lips. Her make-up was thick, making it difficult to discern her age, but the lines around her eyes and mouth stood in stark relief against the glaring street lights.

“They don’t take kindly to new faces. Especially ones as pretty as yours,” she continued, blowing a steady stream of smoke around each word.

Parvati arched a brow, starting towards her. “I’m flattered.”

The woman chuckled at Parvati's lackluster tone, scratching absently at her ample cleavage. “Let me guess, you just got canned from the mill.”

Parvati stopped short, rocking precariously. “Why do you say that?”

“Your hands.”

She glanced at her calloused palms.

"And the scar," the stranger added, crossing her feet at the ankles. Her stockings were full of runners but her legs were lean and muscular. "Their machines are notorious in these parts. I've seen girls with similar marks, missing fingers even.”

Parvati swallowed thickly, tracing the long scar wrapping her exposed forearm. “I’ve watched women lose their entire hand.”

“They should burn that place to the ground with the owner inside.”

Parvati glanced up, dark eyes flashing. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“So,” the woman continued, “you got tired of breaking your back and now you're lookin’ to make a living lying on it.” She smirked around her cigarette. “Tale as old as time.”

“If you say so,” Parvati said, continuing her forward journey.

“This your first night?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You seem more interested in talking to the girls than the Johns.” The woman turned her head, blowing smoke downwind. “Figured you’re looking for some pointers.”

"Actually…" Parvati stopped before the wall, considering her approach. The stranger seemed blunt, something Parvati related to and appreciated, prompting her to dive in headfirst. "I'm looking for someone. I'm hoping one of the girls can help me out.”

The woman raised her penciled brow, intrigue clear in her eyes. “Who you lookin’ for?”

"Lavender Brown." Parvati held her breath, awaiting a reaction. Alas, the opposing face offered none.

“Doesn’t ring any bells. Should it?”

“She…” Parvati glanced away, gathering her resolve. “She’s missing.” And then her eyes snapped forward, voice tight. “She met with a new client before disappearing, he found her in this neighborhood.”

“She was one of us?”

“Lav didn’t walk the street. She was just passing through the area. I’m not even sure he knew she was a paid companion when he approached her.”

“Paid companion?” The woman flicked her ashes with a wry grin. “Ah. She was one of those shiny high-end whores.”

Parvati stiffened. “Lavender isn’t a whore.”

“Mm.” The stranger took another leisurely drag, the cigarette burnt to a stub. “It seems the man she met with didn’t agree.”

“I just need to find the bastard,” Parvati clipped, a cold breeze causing her shoulders to bunch tight.

“You think he frequented this neighborhood?”

“Not exactly,” she wet her lips, “he used an intermediary. One of his employees gave her a card. Lav only bothered calling because of the pay.”

“Sounds risky.”

“I considered all of her tricks risky.”

The woman tilted her head, inspecting Parvati from feet to forehead. “You’re not a hooker, are you?”

Parvati tapped her heel, glancing in either direction before facing forward with a curt shake of her head. “No. I’m just looking for my friend.”

The stranger considered her for several agonizing beats, expression unreadable beneath its heavy paint. Parvati held her breath, fearful she’d caused offense with her subterfuge, severing her only source of information.

"Your friend was either a real stunner or real lucky," the woman finally responded, tone unchanged as she took a final drag. "Or in her case, unlucky."

Parvati bristled as the cigarette was tossed aside, pain lancing through her chest every time Lavender was referenced in the past tense.

“You haven’t heard of anyone else being approached?”

The woman laughed, voice hoarse and amused. "If some guy was handing out golden tickets in these parts the girls would be slitting each other's throats to get their hands on one."

Parvati tipped her head back, groaning into the pale moonlight. “Fuck.”

“Sorry, hon.”

She lowered her gaze, shaking her head. “It’s not your fault. Thanks for speaking with me, I need to ask the others—”

“Be careful, some of them might think you’re a narc, showing up out of the blue and asking questions.”

“I’m not trying to make friends,” Parvati replied. “I’m trying to beat the clock.”

“Beat the clock?”

“She’s been missing since Friday night.”

The woman's face transformed with an ominous smirk, arms crossing over front and revealing a faded tattoo on her bicep. “You seem like an intelligent girl. We both know this isn’t a rescue mission.”

Parvati’s heartbeat echoed in her ears as the air crackled around them, alive with static.

“You’re on a path of vengeance,” the stranger concluded simply, eyes unnerving in their intensity.

Parvati took a slow step back, eager to escape, praying distance would quell the awful burning behind her eyes. "Have a good night," she offered weakly, turning on stiff legs.

She made it half a block before the treacherous tear escaped.

* * *

Hermione staggered the last three feet to the street lamp, listing heavily against its side to catch her breath. She dropped her forehead to the cool metal, relishing the November breeze that swept past. Her skin was overheated in the wake of the daunting journey across town, a journey that should have taken no more than fifteen minutes by foot. But half an hour later she was still stumbling like a drunk down the neatly paved roads en route to her final destination.

Hermione pushed off the pole and continued ahead, digging deep for her final reserves. She cleared a cluster of neatly trimmed hedges and slowed, overcome with emotion as she caught sight of the steepled roof, her sanctuary finally visible at the top of the hill…

St. Ambrose Church

She continued forward, thighs burning with the incline. The building cut a magnificent sight against the moonlit sky, the heavy rod iron gates wrapping the front only enhancing its presence. And yet, despite the safety the Church represented, Hermione’s trepidation grew with every step. Her skin crawled, a distance buzz filling her head like radio static. She clenched her fists and counted each breath, wholly focused on not passing out before reaching the front doors.

_If I’m even able to breach the gates…_

Hermione had never been a religious person but being unable to step on holy ground was a black mark she simply couldn’t bear.

_Surely Riddle wouldn’t have chosen a meeting place neither of us can enter._

Or maybe that was the point, perhaps this was some elaborate trap. After all, he’d threatened her life during their first encounter, how was she able to trust anything he said?

_He didn’t threaten me in the dream…_

Her skin burned anew.

_Don’t get distracted._

She closed her eyes, rubbing her temples, hardly aware of the couple passing in the opposite direction, gazing upon her warily. The street was otherwise empty, quiet and still.

_Is the Church even open?_

Her lids peeled apart, vision hazed with fatigue and sensitive to the bright moon above. The closer she drew to the gates the more her thoughts raced, lingering on her father, Harry, Ginny… and then focusing on her mother.

Hermione absently pressed a hand to the sharp pain conjured by the woman’s face, desperately wishing she was here. Her father had always been a knowledge store-house but her mother had been an endless well of emotion, her waters able to heal any wound or heartache, no matter how deep. Her death had left a gaping hole in her daughter’s life. Hermione had floundered in misery, burying herself under work in the hopes of filling the void. But even years later the pain still hadn’t lessened, merely changed, hiding inside the cracks of her everyday life.

Hermione took a steadying breath and forced her mind to other thoughts as she neared the top of the hill. She was plagued by guilt for leaving Grimmauld as she did, knowing full-well how Harry would react. Theo wouldn’t be able to keep the man at bay for long and it was only a matter of time before they discovered her empty bedroom, that is, if they hadn't already.

Still, Harry would never be able to guess her destination or the purpose of her mission. Hermione could hardly believe it herself. But she was desperate for answers, answers only Riddle could provide, and her time was nearly up.

She reached the gates at last, breathless and swaying, hands hovering above the rod iron bars. Her body throbbed with every painful beat of her heart as her fingertips pressed the cool metal. When lightning failed to strike her dead she gripped the handle and pulled the gate open, taking a slow step forward. Her foot breached the property line without calamity, skin feverish but free of scorching flames.

_It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay…_

Hermione tried to repeat the assurance in her mother’s voice but couldn’t remember the sound, so she summoned her father instead, shoes tapping softly as she followed the narrow path towards the stairs. She was relieved she could pass through the gates… but entering the Church would be the true test.

_Would Riddle really send me here just to watch me burn alive?_

Her breath escaped in a hissing rush as she began to ascend.

_You can’t trust him._

She faltered on the fifth step, knees nearly buckling under her weight.

 _It’s okay, darling, you can do this_ , her father whispered in her mind.

Hermione knew the words were her own but took comfort in them all the same. She reached the top of the staircase and stopped before the massive double doors. The handles seemed to pulse before her eyes, or perhaps it was only a trick of the light, another hallucination born of a diseased mind. She began to reach forward when she felt the skin-buzzing sensation of a presence behind her, followed by a change in air pressure.

She whipped around, losing her balance in the process and falling into the imposing doors. Her eyes searched the stairs, the grass, the gate, frantic in their pursuit—

But no one was there, the street beyond void of life, desolate as a ghost town.

She pushed off the wood and faced forward with bated breath, lids pressing tight as she gripped the handles and pulled the doors wide.

* * *

Harry adjusted his grip on the narrow wheel, pressing the brakes as he turned onto 2nd Avenue. Despite the plush comfort of the red leather interior his back and shoulders remained rigid as stone, neck stiff and sore from craning through the open window for the last half hour. He’d scoured half the neighborhood and _still_ — no sign of Hermione. Panic was setting in, the brass steering column heating beneath his sweaty palms.

The aptly-named Phantom glided down the street like a purring shadow, headlights illuminating the empty blacktop in twin beams. The sidewalks were bare, homes dark and silent. The affluent residents of Gramercy were tucked safely in their beds, sleeping soundly as babes without a care in the world beyond choosing the right lawn fertilizer. Harry slowed the luxury vehicle around the next turn, continuing his pursuit with ever-growing hopelessness.

His gaze narrowed on every swaying branch and glinting hubcap, each hint of movement causing his heart to skip erratically. The few lingering pedestrians eyed him warily, suspicious of his late-night antics and slow cruising of their gated-community. If not for the cover of Malfoy’s upscale car the police would have surely been notified of the robber casing the street. His paranoid neighbors had to have noticed Hermione staggering past.

_She wouldn’t want to draw attention to herself… she probably took a cab._

But her purse was still on the desk.

_Hermione’s clever, and she’s trying to evade me. She won’t be easy to spot._

The thought was a painful one. But Harry knew this was merely some misguided means of protecting him, clearly unaware that her intentional abandonment was far more hurtful than losing her mind and trying to kill him.

Harry dragged a hand over his face, questioning his life choices.

He’d parted ways with Nott at Grimmauld’s gates, agreeing to scour opposite ends of the neighborhood to better utilize their time. Theo had elected to search by foot, likely in an attempt to avoid Malfoy’s wrath when Harry inevitably scraped the fender against the curb.

Harry had spent every minute since trying to figure out the first half of the goddamn letter. It was obvious someone had given it to her, sundown clearly denoting a meeting time, but Hermione was hardly in any condition to grab a cup of coffee with friends. No, there was only one person she’d risk facing in her current state.

Now the question was: where does one hold a clandestine meeting with a sadistic bastard who also happened to be a vampire?

Followed closely by: what did Harry plan on doing if and when he encountered said sadistic undead bastard?

_I should have brought supplies with me, at least the holy water—_

Harry slammed on the brakes, tires screeching across the asphalt as the Rolls-Royce rocked to a hard stop. His emerald gaze reflected brightly in the windshield, heart galloping out of his chest.

_“We also don’t know if holy water burns them and yet here we are, in a church, reeking of garlic…”_

He blinked quickly. Was it possible? There was a church on the other side of Peter’s Field, within walking distance of Grimmauld if she cut through yards…

_I’m grasping at straws._

But it was the only straw within reach so he jerked the wheel in a hard u-turn and began rapidly backtracking. A church would be neutral meeting ground, the safest way for them to converse. It was a long-shot, but maybe, just maybe, fate would take mercy on him.

Harry stepped on the accelerator, praying for a miracle.

* * *

Theo continued his journey along the north edge of the Park, absently peering through the bars of the gated enclosure. He sensed no movement within, aside from the occasional nocturnal scavenger darting up a tree, orange eyes glowing from between the leaves. He dragged a hand over his face, thoughts pulled in every direction, unable to settle upon any one crisis.

Granger, the ashes, the virus, Anastasia…

An endless carousel of clusterfucks.

Try as he might to center his concentration on Hermione, another face continually possessed his mind’s eye. Sallow and bruised flesh, clouded and sunken eyes. His goddamn _cousin_.

Theo shook his head, maneuvering around a fire hydrant.

_Brilliant work there, moron._

He still had no idea what compelled him to name her like a pet.

_Not a pet. Of all the names you could have chosen…_

He banished the thought before it could poison his bloodstream. The truth of the matter was simple: Theo had procured her, resurrected her, and then named her. She was his responsibility now.

_And your first act as her so-called caretaker was to leave her alone._

She was practically a newborn… unless she’d turned into a rampaging predator in his absence. Yes, that would certainly complicate matters. And to think, a week ago his greatest concern was faulty wiring in the lab— Theo stumbled over an uneven bend in the pavement and caught himself against the side of the gate, blinking quickly and taking in his surroundings anew.

Oh, right. He was looking for Granger.

He carded a hand through his hair and exhaled into the bitter night. _Jesus Christ_. He needed to get his head straight, utterly useless in this state.

He started forward once more, nearing the western edge of the Park, unsure where to turn next. There was no guarantee that Hermione was even still in Gramercy. She could have hopped a cab and traveled clear across the city by now.

_This is fruitless._

He’d promised Potter he would help search, but how long were they expected to wander the streets before admitting defeat? He knew the idiot knight would never throw down his shield, hunting until the break of dawn. But Theo didn’t have endless hours to spare.

_I told her I’d bring back dinner…_

He rubbed his eyes, reaching the end of the sidewalk and lingering on the curb.

_Granger was perfectly rational when we last spoke. She left for a reason. Who am I to undermine her mission?_

Guilt gnawed at his stomach, twisting his insides until he ground his teeth in protest.

_You can’t leave her to wander the vampire-ridden streets of New York City alone._

Then again… she seemed moments away from becoming one of them herself.

_She obviously left to distance herself from us. Do I really want to be the one to find her?_

He squeezed the handle of his case until the leather groaned between his fingers. There was holy water and a cross inside. Was he prepared to wield either?

Theo rubbed his eyes once more and moonlight glinted off his watch. He turned his wrist, noting the hour… _Fuck_.

His arm dropped heavy to his side, neck craning in either direction as he searched for movement, headlights, anything that could possibly constitute a sign from the universe. Alas, even the Park remained eerily silent at his back, holding its breath in anticipation. Theo counted down the seconds, the stars pulsing brightly above, awaiting the inevitable.

And then he squared his shoulders, adjusting his grip on his case before crossing the street en route to Park Avenue. He’d be able to find a cab there, finally returning to where he was most needed.

* * *

Anastasia wandered the streets with single-minded determination, bare feet caked with ash and grime, immune to the frozen ground. The sky was black, street lights blazing overhead. Their buzzing glow hurt her eyes so she steered clear of their illuminating pools, staying close to the walls as she navigated the bustling storefronts.

The sight of the crowd was overwhelming at first, but the Scent grew stronger as she slipped between the press of bodies and her discomfort fell by the wayside. Her hair hung forward and concealed her face from view, but a few people edged closer and got a good look, their jaws hanging wide before staggering clear of her path with varying looks of alarm. Anastasia merely blinked, smiling at their shell-shocked expressions as she continued forward, no destination in mind.

Her insides wrung tighter the further she strayed from the laboratory, plagued by hunger and guilt. Theo was going to be upset, she just hoped he wouldn’t throw her out. The streets were noisy and crowded and strange. She much preferred the colorful beakers at home, their bubbling liquids and curling steam, the overflowing shelves and playful mice and glittering microscope. Perhaps Theo would even teach her how to use the tool properly if she apologized for leaving and cleaned up the mess she left behind…

A fresh wave of Scent surrounded her from all sides. She rocked back on her heels before spinning a tight circle, searching out the source. Food food food food food…

_What is food?_

The word was instinctual but she was having difficulty recalling a specific image to pair it with.

Her feet took possession of her body, leading her further along the street to a colorful sign on the corner. She blinked twice, staring at the symbols overhead. Her lips formed the sounds of their own accord though they held little meaning to her overtaxed mind.

“Fresh produce.”

A gap appeared in the crowd and a row of tables was revealed, every surface covered by wooden crates, each box filled with colorful items of every shape and size. A few of them caused her hands to twitch, as though recalling the sensation against her fingertips.

“Food,” she muttered, surging ahead with renewed purpose. She breached the milling crowd and arrived before a crate filled with bright green. She read the sign but didn’t register the item until she had it in hand, absorbing its weight and tracing its stem, memories sparking to life.

 _Apple_.

She wasted no time biting into the crunchy flesh, toes curling as the tart juices exploded across her tongue. Her teeth chomped loudly, unrelenting in their destruction. Bits of fruit over spilled her lips and fell to her shirt as she worked her way through the center, swallowed seeds and stem in equal measure. Within seconds the apple was gone. But her hunger remained.

She staggered to the next crate, reaching inside without bothering to read the sign. Anastasia recognized the citrus scent, recalling the flavor of an orange even before biting into it. The rind was bitter but went down within moments, food piling in the pit of her stomach like stones, heavy and useless. She reached for a banana next, desperation growing. The more she consumed, the hungrier she felt.

_Isn’t it supposed to work the other way around?_

She huffed in frustration and clenched her fist, soft yellow flesh oozing between her fingers and plopping beside her toes in squishy lumps. Sweetness coated her tongue and juice glistened on her chin but none of it tasted _right_. She recalled consuming all of these colorful items at some point in the murky past… but why? They weren’t satisfying, the consistency and flavoring all wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong—

_Food. I need real food._

Her hopes were momentarily restored when she caught sight of a basket at the end of the row, filled with warm and fragrant… something.

She gripped the edge of the table for support and shuffled closer, knocking shoulders with an old woman approaching in the other direction. Anastasia was hardly aware of the collision, offering no response as the stranger examined her closely, eyes flaring wide before crossing herself and hurrying the opposite way.

Anastasia stopped before the basket, grabbing a wrapped bundle with two hands and biting into the end, recalling its name as soon as yeast bloomed to life across her tongue.

 _Bread_.

The mere word inspired warmth in her chest, some powerful emotion evoked. But the sensation stopped there, her stomach still roaring for sustenance. Fear added to the hysteria as she wondered if she’d ever be able to quell the burning ache in her gut. Her teeth tore at the crust in a frenzy, throat convulsing as she swallowed the chunks without chewing. Her stomach continued to fill and the hunger continued to fester.

She was halfway through the loaf when a portly man emerged from a doorway behind the tables, arms filled with empty crates. Their eyes met. Anastasia took another bite.

“Hey! You plannin’ to pay for that?” He yelled, voice deep and face red.

She blinked, forcing the dry lump down with another heavy gulp before diving back in. A rumbling growl emitted from between his clenched teeth as he dropped the crates in a mighty clatter. His heavy footsteps were masked by the bustle of the crowd as he stomped around the table. But his roar was audible enough when he spotted the fruit rinds trailing her path.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” He stalked forward, grabbing her arm and wrenching her closer. “I’ve had it with you homeless junkies! You better pray—” His narrow gaze widened so abruptly she feared his eyes would fall out of their sockets. Broken sounds escaped his mouth as he inspected her closely. “Jesus…” He released her arm, nearly upending a table in his haste to back away. “Uh, look, don’t worry about the bread. Just… take it.”

She grinned widely, bits of soggy crust spilling past her lips. “Thank you.”

He continued to gaze upon her as he retraced his steps, tripping over the crates and catching himself against the doorway before running inside. Anastasia blinked innocently, going in for another bite when her stomach gurgled, clenching tight around the pile of fruit and bread. She rocked forward, dropping the loaf and gripping the edge of the table, arms trembling with the onslaught.

_No… please not again…_

She was going to be sick. The thought terrified her. She didn’t want to throw up in front of everyone. Especially the black sludge…

_Move. Now._

She pushed away from the crates and stumbled blindly for the shadows, shouldering past bodies without a glance in their direction. There was a patch of blackness ahead, centered between two buildings. A piece of glass sliced into the arch of her foot as she charged headlong into the alley, the shard tugging at her flesh but eliciting no pain. She caught herself against the edge of the dumpster before doubling over behind it, lips parting wide and expelling every ounce of fresh produce from her stomach.

She slumped into the brick afterward, gazing upon the mushy pile with a heavy sigh. No black bile. That was good, right? Her stomach didn’t share in her relief, twisting with an enraged snarl. She keened softly, wrapping her arms around her middle.

“Hey there. You okay, sweetheart?”

Anastasia blinked, head snapping up. A man stood at the mouth of the alley, streetlights glowing brightly behind his figure, casting his face in darkness.

“Let me guess,” he continued pacing forward, “hangover from hell? There’s only one thing for it.”

She swallowed thickly, squinting against the light. “Hangover?”

“You need some hair of the dog that bit ya.”

"A dog bit me?" She asked, unwinding her arms and tracing their mottled purple welts with a fingertip. She'd been meaning to ask Theo what they were. Her cousin didn't seem to have any on him. Neither did the girl in the beaker. She glanced back up. "What's a dog?”

He laughed, moving closer yet. “You’re funny. Come on, my place isn’t far. I got some quality hooch that’ll get you squared away.”

Her arms lowered, palms pressing the course brick at her back. “Theo will be home soon.”

“Theo? That your man?”

“My man…” she repeated, trying to process the meaning.

He rounded the dumpster and examined her from the shoulders down, or what was visible in the shadows. His gaze lingered on her bare and blackened feet. “Damn, sweetheart, you’re in worse shape than I thought. You’re going to catch your death out here. Let’s get you warmed up inside.”

She traced the grout with her fingernails. “I need to go home.”

“Alright… let me walk you.”

She stood away from the wall, shaking her head and starting for the street. “No thank you.”

He caught her arm as she passed, halting her tracks. “Now hold your horses—”

But the rest of his words faded away, dizziness seizing her head as fear took her by the throat. Strange images flooded her vision, the man before her transforming into someone else, another man, another alley.

_“Where you goin’, baby? We aren’t finished…”_

Anastasia jerked back with a desperate cry, pushing against his chest without thought. He flew across the alley and into the brick, colliding with a crack and a pained yell. His body slid to the ground beside the dumpster in a heap.

Anastasia jolted, startled by the commotion. “I’m sorry!” She gasped, rushing forward.

“What the fuck is your—” His words trailed off as she stepped into a pocket of light emitted from the corner shop. “What… what’s wrong with your eyes?” He scurried back, pressing flat to the wall. “Get away from me, crazy bitch!”

She took a step back, intent on obeying, when her heels locked in place, muscles tensing beyond her control.

The Scent was back.

The Scent was everywhere. Here. Close.

She swayed in place, clouded gaze drifting up and focusing on a gleaming streak across the brick. It appeared black in the moonlight but the pale grout shone red beneath the glowing shop sign. Anastasia wet her lips, hypnotized, hardly aware of his struggles as he pulled himself upright against the dumpster. The back of his head glistened as well. She stepped closer.

“I said get away!”

He pressed his hand to the wet spot, fingers coming away red and glistening. Her entire body erupted in wildfire, vision tunneling on his hand as he raised it between them, edging back.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble—”

She reached out with quick reflexes, catching his wrist and wrenching him forward, licking the length of his palm. His mouth hung wide as she lifted her face, red smearing her lips and chin.

“What…” He swallowed heavily, seemingly lost for words.

Anastasia released his wrist, tilting her head and studying him anew. “I’m sorry,” she repeated in a whisper.

His eyes flared wide, knowing her next move before she did. He inhaled sharply, releasing a panicked shout—

Anastasia fell upon him with all four limbs, tackling him to the damp cement as she bit into his throat. His cry dissolved into a bubbling gurgle as blood sprayed the brick in a wide and gleaming arc.

* * *

Draco closed the cabinet with a disgruntled groan. Another dead end. Fucking fantastic.

“Come on, I know Black kept a decent stash somewhere in this godforsaken hovel.” He cast his silver gaze sideways at the cat silently padding across the counter. “Any ideas?”

The ghastly feline released an echoing meow, followed by an obscenely loud purr as it rubbed its head and body along Draco’s arm as though trying to shed its skin.

“Surely there’s a wine cellar.” Draco dragged a hand over his face, absently raking through orange fur with the other. “... _can’t_ expect me to stay in this haunted house sober,” he mumbled, backing away from the pantry and heading for the hall. “God _forbid_ they ask me to tag along on their little adventure.”

His eyes narrowed on the archway ahead, the cat trotting eagerly at his heels.

“No, of course not. That might actually include telling me what the _fuck_ is going on and where's the fun in that? Clearly, all I'm good for is loaning out my car and babysitting old men. Nevermind the fact I single-handedly delivered Granger back home without a _single_ scratch on her. Meanwhile, they spend ten whole minutes in her presence and she’s jumping out the goddamn window like some melodramatic Brontë character. If she had access to a cannon she’d probably crawl inside and launch herself over the fucking Hudson. Can’t say I’d blame her. ”

He strode into the entry hall, shoulder blades tight as he inspected a deep fissure running the length of the ceiling, splitting the crown molding and zigzagging down the wall in a lightning bolt pattern.

Lovely, the house was set to collapse at the next strong breeze.

“Seems appropriate I die performing my one good deed of the year.”

A floorboard creaked loudly in the dark corridor ahead. Draco stopped in his tracks, hands curing against the cool breeze that emitted from the shadows. He glanced down carefully, meeting the amber gaze hovering beside his shin.

“Please tell me you didn’t hear that.”

Another floorboard creaked, closer and louder than before. The feline twitched its bottlebrush tail, eyes snapping forward as its back arched in warning. Draco deflated on a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I refuse to acknowledge the presence of evil spirits or home invaders until I have a drink in my hand.”

Something hard and heavy hit the floor with a bang, causing Draco and the cat to jolt a foot in the air. They settled on stiff legs as the object rolled down the hall, clearing the threshold with a deep and ominous metallic hum. Draco blinked twice as a silver candlestick holder came to a slow stop halfway across the floor.

“I’m definitely not acknowledging that.”

He turned swiftly, heading in the opposite direction without a backward glance. His long strides made quick work of the scuffed and warped slats, that is until he rounded the corner and staggered in place, stricken by the appearance of a familiar figure at the end of the hall.

His lips parted, bloodless in shock. “Professor? How…”

_He must have come downstairs while I was in the kitchen._

“Perhaps you should—” his words trailed off as his former teacher turned on his heel and disappeared around the corner. Draco’s jaw tensed as the shuffling footsteps faded down the next corridor.

_Goddammit, Potter._

Draco hadn’t signed up for this. But he was here now, responsible for the man’s well-being whether he liked it or not.

“Like father like daughter,” he muttered with no small amount of bitterness, starting forward.

He followed the man around the adjoining hall but once more drew up short. A pair of double doors stood wide at the other end, leading to what appeared to be a very old and very dead conservatory. He could hear the Professor from somewhere inside but couldn’t see his lanky form.

Draco released a hissing breath, fingers carding through his hair as he gathered his meager resolve, not particularly keen on wrangling his former teacher like an errant child. In truth, Draco was a bit anxious at the prospect of facing the man after all this time. He hadn't seen the Professor since his retirement party years ago. Granger had been diagnosed a month prior but his brilliance had yet to be diminished. Now, Draco would be faced with the harsh reality that lingered behind Hermione's gaze every time someone mentioned her father.

There was no point in delaying the inevitable. The sooner Draco got the man back to bed the sooner he could find a stiff drink. So he continued ahead, entering the Conservatory on a deep sigh.

The walls and ceiling were plated glass, revealing a vast darkness that pressed in from all sides, kept at bay by the tendrils of fairy light spilling from the rafters like glowing ivy. The plants were long dead, branches petrified and leaves tightly curled, the ground more ash than soil. It was a desolate Eden, the perfect accompaniment to a haunted house.

Despite the skeletal trees and wilted stalks, Draco couldn't see the wayward Professor. But he could hear a faint shuffling from behind a freestanding trellis. Between the brown and crusted vines twisting through the slats, Draco detected movement. He quickly navigated the cobbled path, the relentless feline traipsing dutifully alongside as they journeyed between row upon row of potted bulbs, dead before even breaching the surface.

The sound of scraping stone filled the dry and dusty air, rumbling across his skin and causing the fine hairs to stand on end. It sounded like someone pushing a boulder uphill.

_Which would be the least bizarre thing that’s occurred under this roof tonight._

His steps slowed as he rounded the partition, a massive fountain coming into view. Richard stood just before its center, peering down with stout concentration. The basin was filled with brown and withered leaves, barren as a desert. And then the Professor shifted aside and Draco’s mouth ran just as dry.

The fountain was parted down the middle, revealing a narrow staircase leading into absolute darkness. So naturally, the renowned Egyptologist began to hum a merry tune and descend, slippers softly tapping stone.

Draco rubbed his brow. “Why couldn’t he have wandered into the street or set fire to the house?”

The cat mewled its strict disapproval, tail standing straight on end as it sprang after the wandering loon, pouncing silently down the steps. Draco tipped his head with a groan, meeting his distorted gaze in the fogged panes above. “There had _better_ be a bottle of vintage cab at the end of this dark and ominous tunnel.”

He journeyed forward, hesitating at the top step as he peered into the waiting pool of shadows. "Professor?" His voice echoed on a loop, distorting into a whale call by the time it reached the end of its life cycle. A cheery hum bounced back up the stairs, more unnerving than annoying. Draco tightened his fists, scowling as he began his slow and careful descent. "Alright, I deserve to be ax murdered after this."

The shadows swallowed him whole. He lifted either arm, bracing his hands to the roughly carved walls for balance. “... Mr. Granger?”

His steps faltered as he reached the bottom of the stairwell, relying on the cat’s glowing eyes to navigate the path ahead. Draco progressed along a short hall. Once he turned the corner pale moonlight flooded the subterranean enclosure. He carded stiff fingers through his hair, rotating in a slow circle.

_Harry Fucking Potter, you owe me into your next miserable life._

He faced forward, edging around a stone pillar and continuing to follow the feline's dexterous lead. It was then he pinpointed the source of the illumination: brick-sized windows carved along the top of the stone walls. He stepped to one and gazed out at mounds of dirt and overgrown weeds, a chipped wooden lattice acting like a gate on the other side. He wet his lips, realization dawning. They stood beneath the back porch, staring out at the crawl space. Now the question really was what the fuck was this place? Followed in rapid succession by what the fuck was he doing standing in it?

“It’s obviously an elaborate root cellar,” Draco mused aloud, needing to fill the oppressive silence before it choked him dead. “And I'm standing here because I’m in elaborate need of vodka. Which comes from a root. The circle of life.”

An autumn gust whistled sharply through the narrow gaps in the stone, bitter cold permeating his bones. Draco stood away from the wall and turned, spotting a shadow on the opposite wall. He shifted on his feet yet the shadow remained fixed. His heart stuttered, centered at the back of his tongue as it crept up his throat.

“Professor?” Draco edged around another support beam, staring at the empty space on the other side. He swallowed heavily, glancing back to the wall. The stationary shadow was gone, replaced by his own.

Right.

“Well, that about does it for me.” He spun swiftly, intent on leaving the haunted basement behind like the bad dream it obviously was.

“Tubers.”

Draco gasped, turning rigid as the pillars at his side. The Professor seemed to materialize from thin air, facing a metal door in the wall Draco couldn’t remember passing.

Draco wet his lips and rocked back on his heels, restless with nerves. “Profess—” he exhaled sharply, rubbing his eyes. “ _Richard_ , we shouldn’t be—”

“Potatoes are stem tubers, not root vegetables,” the man continued in a conversational tone, gazing fixedly at the metal barrier. “A common misconception, given they’re typically found beneath the soil. When in reality they grow on stolons, subterranean stems. Though sweet potatoes are the exception, modified, tuberous roots that they are.”

Draco blinked slowly.

_Was I already ax-murdered and sent to hell?_

"However, the entire point is moot," Professor Granger concluded with a jovial flourish, "given the vast majority of commercial vodka is produced with fermented grains in lieu of their starchy predecessor."

Draco dragged a hand over his face, earlier fear rapidly abated in the wake of the familiar voice. He was transported back to his classroom days, a time when life was much simpler, a time when he didn’t lend out his custom-built Rolls-Royce to complete and total idiots.

“I had no idea you were an agriculturist as well as historian.”

The Professor tipped his head with a laugh, so much like his old-self Draco couldn’t fathom why he was forced into early retirement.

“Hardly. My fiancé is a cultural anthropologist. She developed a fascination with horticulture after taking a class on the subject, converted our balcony into a makeshift garden. I’ve picked up a few interesting facts along the way but unfortunately, no new culinary skills.”

Draco swallowed heavily, wracking his mind for a suitable response. But he was spared from the effort as Richard grabbed the metal handle and pulled the door wide. Metal scraped the uneven ground, grating as nails on a chalkboard. The cat seemed equally perturbed, arching its back with a hiss.

Draco braced himself as Richard stood aside, exposing the doorway and the darkened room beyond. And then he blinked, eyes adjusting to the shadows and items scattered within. Recognition struck, as did a bolt of adrenaline, causing his pule to echo off the stone as one thing became abundantly clear.

“So, this is how I die.”

* * *

Ron adjusted his stance for the tenth time in as many minutes, unable to find a comfortable position against the cold brick. Jagged grout dug into his shoulder blades while smoke and sewage lingered in the air, filling his every breath and turning his stomach. Girls passed by on rotation, adorning alternating looks of seduction and annoyance depending on how many times they’d tried to solicit him.

He traversed these types of neighborhoods on a nightly basis in pursuit of leads, but he’d never lingered in one spot for so long and it clearly showed. The locals could tell he didn’t belong here, and Patil didn’t seem to be faring much better. Women pinned her with open suspicious as she navigated the street. Despite their unwelcoming demeanor Parvati kept her chin held high and pushed forward, relentless in her mission.

He admired her dedication, though he also suspected she’d sooner cut off her hand than admit her plan was total shit, stubbornness infusing her with the necessary motivation to complete the task. Still, her tireless networking had paid off at least marginally. She’d engaged in two conversations so far and though her expression gave little away, Ron was hopeful. One of them had to the optimist in their two-person sideshow.

He watched her near the end of the curb, trying to infiltrate a cluster of hookers gathered beside a factory gate. He lost sight of her as a group of people turned the corner, blocking her from view. _Crap_. He didn’t like losing visual, even for a moment. A moment was all it took…

Ron lifted his wrist, gaze narrowing on the hands ticking away beneath the scratched glass. It was getting late. The shift-change would happen soon and the street would be chaos. It was best to steer clear of the event altogether, which meant leaving now.

He stood from the wall, rolling his shoulders to alleviate their stiffness before starting down the sidewalk. His spine lengthened in an attempt to peer over the crowd, searching out the perpetually sour countenance of his partner. He became so absorbed in his task he nearly collided with a man moving swiftly in the opposite direction. But Ron sensed the approach at the last second and dodged right, stumbling off the curb and into the street. The stranger strode past without reaction, shoulders drawn tight and head bent down. His face was hidden behind a raised collar, body swimming in an oversized trench coat.

Ron scowled at the retreating figure, shouting as he disappeared around the next building. “Don’t mind me! Sorry for breathing!”

He shook his head, then jolted at the blaring horn. Brakes screeched as a car veered around him, the passenger shouting obscenities through the window as a nearby cluster of hookers laughed.

_This goddamn neighborhood._

Ron stepped back onto the pavement, dragging a hand over his face and trying to recalibrate. He turned to face the gate where he'd last spotted Patil— but his gaze was captured by the sway of golden hair instead, its owner emerging from an alley on the opposite side of the street. His muscles locked tight, breath seizing in his lungs as his vision tunneled in on the young woman cutting a quick path down the sidewalk.

Her face was tilted down, wavy hair blocking her identity, and her clothing was… strange. But the lithe figure was familiar, and the hair… the hair was unmistakable.

"Lav?" It came out barely above a whisper. His fingers twitched as she passed beneath a lamppost, the pool of orange light encasing her like an aura. He opened and closed his mouth before inhaling sharply and calling out. "Lavender!"

A few hookers glanced his way, clearly annoyed by the commotion. But the woman in question continued her even stride, offering no hint of reaction as she neared the end of the street. His heart stuttered painfully and freed him of the daze. He lurched forward, charging headlong into the street without a glance in either direction. A car slammed on its brakes, the driver gesturing colorfully as Ron jogged past. A hooker took advantage of the situation, sidling up to the passenger door and tapping on the window, pressing her ample cleavage against the glass.

Ron stepped onto the sidewalk, moving out of the path of oncoming pedestrians. He’d lost sight of the blonde. _Fuck_. But he continued forward, casting his gaze in every direction, desperately hunting for another flash of golden waves.

_It wasn’t her. It couldn't have been her._

He wet his lips, maneuvering around a bench. A homeless man slumbered atop the slats, an open newspaper spread across his face.

_But the hair…_

He reached the end of the street, stopping in his tracks and spinning beneath the street sign.

_It was her._

He gripped either side of his skull, searching the heavily made faces of every woman in sight, the bright spark of hope rapidly dimming.

_It wasn’t her._

Still, it wasn’t over. Ron hadn’t seen where she’d gone. But he knew where she came from.

He spun, battered soles tugging loose from the worn leather as he broke into a sprint, carefully retracing her path until reaching the mouth of the dark alley she materialized from. His eyes narrowed on the street at the other end, equally bustling, though it seemed to be filled with more than just hookers and dealers.

_Where would she have been coming from?_

He scratched the back of his head, eyes drifting shut as he tried to recall the image of her walking away, unsure what reality he was trying to convince himself of.

A soft groan caused his lids to snap wide. Ron blinked, startled and alert as he peered into the darkness blanketing either side of the alley. He sensed no movement from within… and then another groan filled the air, distinctly male.

_The street’s overflowing with working girls, what do you think happens in the shadows?_

Warmth spread from his neck to the tips of his ears as he shuffled back, starting to turn when the groan turned into an awful croak. Ron’s step faltered. A wet gurgle came next, followed by a desperate pant.

His hands opened and closed as he slowly turned back to the alley. “Hello?”

A low keen answered. Ron swallowed thickly. _Just some drunk…_

And yet his feet edged forward, possessed by a force that evaded rational thought. As he breached the entrance another gurgle met his ears, inducing an automatic cringe. Something about the noises sounded… grotesque. Ron chewed on his tongue before trying again.

“Hello?”

Something scraped the pavement, followed by a metallic bang. Ron jolted, gaze affixed to the dumpster halfway down. He blinked against the shadows, able to make out the rectangular shape against the muted street light. His eyes tracked lower, to the foot extending past the edge. The rest of its owner was blocked from view but Ron breathed easier knowing the source. Definitely a drunk.

“You alright?”

Silence greeted him, more disturbing than any of the noises that came before. He continued forward, steps measured and body coiled tight. The scent of bile hung heavy in the air, pungent and corrosive. He also smelled pee, alcohol, and something metallic… probably just the lingering smoke of some street drug. Ron held his breath as he drew closer to the foot, pulse quickening as it twitched. He was nearly upon the dumpster, stepping over busted crates and rotten garbage as he began to round the side—

A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind.

Ron yelled, tripping over his feet as he spun around and falling against the opposite wall. Someone stood behind him, face bathed in darkness but he recognized the feminine shape.

“Fuck!” He steadied himself against the bricks. “Jesus, Patil! You trying to kill me?”

“You really want me to answer that?” Her arms crossed tightly over front and blocked her cleavage from view, much to his relief. “What the hell are you doing down here? You’re supposed to be my guard dog.”

“I didn’t think you needed protection,” he snapped, still pissed as he kicked aside trash and pushed away from the wall.

“I don’t,” she scathed. “But I can’t question hookers and worry about you getting stabbed at the same time. Every idiot knows to stay out of the alleys in these parts.”

He mirrored her expression. “I thought I saw—”

The wet gurgle returned, disrupting their heated exchange as they spun to face the dumpster.

“What was that?” She whispered sharply, edging closer to his side.

Ron paled beyond his control. “I don’t know.”

“Then it should stay that way.” She grabbed his arm, much to his shock, and started trying to tug him back.

He shook his head and resisted her pull. “We should check to see if someone is hurt.”

“It might be a trap.”

“What?”

She released him with a hiss. “Don’t be so fucking naive, Weasley! Perverts imitate crying children to lure women into dark alleys all the time! Evil knows no bounds. I’m not falling for whatever bullshit this is.”

He blinked slowly, still processing her words when the foot spasmed anew and drew their gazes with it. Ron audibly gulped as an expanding pool of red appeared from behind the dumpster, glistening like crude oil beneath the moonlight.

“This is some elaborate bullshit,” he muttered, utterly transfixed.

Parvati clenched her fists and shifted behind his shoulder. “All the more reason to avoid it.”

Seconds passed with agonizing slowness, outpaced by the rapid thrum of his heart. And all the while the pool continued to grow and the foot continued to twitch.

Ron took a deep breath, stepping forward before he lost his nerve entirely. "This is ridiculous. Someone's hurt, I need to look."

“Weasley!” Parvati reached out but he jerked his arm away. “Fucking moron!” She glanced over her shoulder, watching the darkness at their backs and reluctantly trailing his heels.

They rounded the dumpster at the same time.

Parvati gazed down, catching sight of the gruesome scene a moment after Ron though her reaction came first. She staggered back, gasping sharply and colliding with the brick. A choked sob bubbled forth, followed by a blood-curdling scream. His muscles tightened at its piercing volume, ears ringing with the shrill echo even after she fell silent and spun on her heel, running as fast as her heels and skirt would allow.

Ron remained frozen. Unable to blink, unable to breathe, trapped in a numb stupor that turned his entire body to stone. Nothing existed beyond the ringing in his ears and the horror at his feet. He couldn't tear his eyes from the gruesome sight, not even when Parvati doubled back, grabbing handfuls of his shirt and pulling him away, shouting obscenities all the while. Her voice was distant and distorted like they were underwater, the weight of the ocean pressing against his lungs.

His feet dragged as she tugged him out of the alley and into the crowd that had gathered at the opening. It wasn’t until they were halfway down the street that he blinked and in hindsight, it was the worst mistake of his life, because the moment he closed his lids the image burned deep into his brain, emblazoned on his memory for all eternity.

The blood-drenched illustration of a man with his torso wrenched apart, arms full of mangled intestines and a lap full of glistening organs. But the one detail that would haunt Ron until his dying day was the look in the stranger’s still-blinking eyes as his soul departed his body.

* * *

Street lights flickered past in rapid succession, dancing across Ginny’s face and neck as she enjoyed the view. She’d never ridden in the front seat of a car before, always remanded to the back by one of her brothers, the twats acting like they owned the vehicle just because they stole it.

“You look like you’ve never seen the outside world,” Rabastan muttered around his unlit cigarette.

"Well, I did just escape a cult."

He shook his head, reaching forward to press the lighter.

“Vampires driving cars,” Ginny mumbled, absently drumming the windowsill. “My ten-year-old self’s mind is blown.” She met her reflection in the glass, eyes catching the light like a nocturnal creature. It would have been frightening if it wasn’t so fucking awesome. “So…” she turned to the uptight prick behind the wheel. “Is there a vampire King?”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“I’m just trying to fill in the blanks.”

“In your head? We’ll be driving until the twenty-first century.”

“Hardy har har.” She leaned back, propping her knee against the dash. “Though I’m relieved to see your asshole can unclench long enough to make a joke.”

Rabastan blinked, gripping the wheel tighter. “Fucking hell.”

Ginny smiled sweetly. “Deepest apologies, my Liege, is my uncouth behavior offending your delicate sensibilities?”

“Do you even know what all those words mean?”

“Not really,” she shrugged. “I read it in my mom’s Cosmo and thought it sounded fancy.”

He made a left turn, forgoing the blinker and running a red light. Percy would have shit a brick.

“Cosmo and petty theft,” he mused as the lighter popped, “what a protean upbringing.”

Ginny glared at his sharp profile as he lit the end of his cigarette, looking supremely pleased with himself.

"Protean," she repeated loud and clear like a contestant in a spelling bee, "ever-changing and flexible, derived from the Greek sea-god Proteus, prophet, and seal-herder."

His jaw went lax, cigarette nearly falling from his mouth as he slowly turned his head.

“English Lit, junior year,” she said with a smirk. “Only final I ever aced. Mione helped me pull an all-nighter, quizzed me on the Odyssey til I was bleeding from the eyes.” The memory evoked a fond smile. “She made it fun though. Helped it stick.” Ginny turned back to the window, meeting her gaze in the side mirror. “Hermione’s always been good that way. She would’ve made a great teacher.”

Her thoughts drifted, as did her grin, wondering when she’d see her friend next.

Rabastan exhaled a column of smoke, the cloud rushing towards his disgruntled passenger as though her forehead was a vent. “You better get that nostalgia bullshit under control.”

Ginny scowled, batting away the grey haze. “I don’t see the problem. The others were chosen _because_ of their families, Bella certainly won’t force them to break ties.”

“You aren’t like the others.”

“No shit. I know how to cut the crust off my sandwiches all by myself.”

He smirked, cigarette tipping higher. “Don’t like your new brothers and sisters?”

“They _aren’t_ my brothers and sisters,” she bit back, crossing her arms and staring pointedly ahead. “I have a family, I didn’t come here for a new one.”

“It doesn’t matter why you came, all that matters is why she chose you.”

“She said—”

“What Bella says and what she means are often in direct opposition. You’ll learn that soon enough.”

Ginny lowered her arms, glancing sideways to study his profile. “Why are you still with her?”

“She’s my Maker,” he answered immediately, though his voice sounded hollow compared to moments ago. “My loyalties lie with my Queen above all others.”

She tilted her head, curiosity brimming. “Even your own brother?”

His knuckles turned white against the wheel, the symbols tattooed across their flesh standing in stark relief. “She told me to prepare you for our world, that’s what I’m doing.” They passed under a bridge, eyes glowing like embers in the night. “Take it or leave it, I really couldn’t care less.”

He stepped on the brakes, jerking them to a halt. Ginny blinked, bracing the dash and peering forward. They’d already arrived. Damn. She’d been looking forward to more time outside the mansion. Rabastan exited the vehicle without further preamble, silent and brooding as always.

Ginny sighed and unbuckled her lap harness. He’d mocked her for wearing it and she’d mocked his shitty driving, inspiring yet another argument that ended in a draw. She emerged from the vehicle with a hop and a skip, following him to the tall gate wrapping the backlot of St. Mungo’s. Ginny hadn’t been to the hospital in years, not since—

_Don’t think about that. Not now._

She shook her head, dispelling the dark memory and prancing to Rabastan's side, basking in the livid gleam he cast upon her until the bastard blew a steady torrent of smoke directly into her face. She coughed and sputtered, stopping to wave her vision clear. By the time she gazed up, he was slipping through a gap in the fence and entering the Authorized Vehicles Only section, or so the giant sign denoted.

She ducked low, sliding between the netting with a hiss as a loose wire scraped her arm. When Ginny finally emerged she had to run to catch up to his determined stride, intent on asking him where they were going when their destination became obvious enough. A row of parked ambulances.

He stopped behind the center vehicle and banged a fist on the closed doors. She stopped a few feet away, curiously glancing around the dark and silent lot. A shuffling sounded and then the doors opened, pulling her gaze forward.

Light spilled across the blacktop from the glowing interior, medical supplies lining its walls and coolers littering the floor. A man in pale blue scrubs and latex gloves glanced between them, eyes bugging like a cartoon character.

“Rabastan! What are— I don't— I mean, uh, hello…”

Ginny arched a brow, watching the color rise in his neck as a sour odor filled the air. She wondered if fear always smelled like skunk spray and how the hell she was supposed to get the stench out of her clothes.

“I… I wasn’t expecting you,” he continued with an audible gulp. His heartbeat thrummed in her ears, dangerously overtaxed and clearly human.

“Is there a problem, Quirrel?” Rabastan asked without a shred of empathy.

“Oh, no, of course not! I just, I sold the last of the bags—”

“Last of the bags? You have none left?”

“I’m sorry, if I’d known you were coming I would’ve—”

“Is there an issue with the supply?” Rabastan asked calmly, which prompted Ginny to shift back, sensing the explosion to come.

Squirrel guy must have sensed it, too, for he started trembling like his switch had been flipped to vibrate. “N-N-No—”

“Then how the fuck did you run out?”

The human swallowed again, though the mass seemed to get caught in his throat. “We had a large order come through tonight—”

“How large?” Rabastan braced his hands against the frame, leaning in.

“Um…” the human blinked, cornered and helpless. “Five liters.”

Lestrange tilted his head, eyes flickering red. “From one customer?”

“Er… yes—”

“Who?”

Squirrel worried his hands together, latex squeaking. Ginny cringed, realizing a moment later the human was staring at her. She held his gaze, reading the desperation trapped within. It was clear he wanted her help but she was too confused to come to his aid even if she wanted to.

"Don't look at her." Rabastan slapped the man with lightning speed, his hand a blur though the crack of skin echoed loudly, making the human yelp and Ginny stiffen. "I asked you the question," Rabastan continued in a menacingly calm tone, "so you keep your eyes on me. Who requested five liters?"

“I can’t— I-I’m not supposed to—”

Rabastan grabbed him by the front of his scrubs and dragged him out of the ambulance, dangling him a foot off the ground and putting them at eye-level. The man emitted a fresh wave of putrid fear, so rank Ginny had to breathe through her mouth to avoid gagging.

“Quirrel, I’ve recently been told I have an exceptionally short fuse, and as much as it chaps my ass to admit— she was fucking right.”

Ginny made a mental note to record this moment for the record books.

“So I won't waste time telling you all the things I’m going to do to you if you _don’t_ give me the name. I’m just going to do them,” Rabastan concluded simply.

Squirrel opened and closed his mouth like a lip-syncing carp before finally croaking a response. “The General.”

Lestrange stiffened. “Abraxas?”

“Y-Yes.”

His jaw clenched, fists tightening their grip and earning a keening whimper from their prisoner. “What blood type?”

“He took everything I had left.”

Ginny’s gaze narrowed, fascinated by the methodical gleam in her reluctant mentor’s eyes as he processed the information.

“Did he now.” Rabastan didn’t phrase it as a question, lost to the inner workings of his mind.

Squirrel continued to dangle like a wet rag, feet twitching in the air. “I, um, I have to get the ambulance back to the garage…”

Rabastan blinked, seeming to recall the human’s presence. “Fuck off then.”

He released his hold. Squirrel dropped with a thud, staggering for balance before diving headfirst into the emergency vehicle. He cast one last parting glance in their direction before slamming the doors closed.

Ginny scratched the side of her head. “Am I supposed to have any idea what the hell just happened?”

“Come on,” Rabastan commanded, starting across the lot towards the gate.

“Are we going to another hospital?” She asked, falling into step behind him.

“The others we use are awaiting new shipments; we’ve cleaned them out over the last two weeks. Mungo’s was the last resort.”

“We can’t go back empty-handed.”

He ducked through the gap in the fence. “I’m well aware.”

Ginny crawled through with far less ease, snagging the jagged wire with her other sleeve. “So where are we going?”

“Under the bridge.”

She blinked, emerging through the other side. “Is that a vampire euphemism?”

“What the fuck would it be a euphemism for?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I asked!”

He shook his head, opening the driver side door. "We're going to have round-up dinner the old-fashioned way."

Ginny swallowed, pulling open her door and sinking into the bench like a stone. “You mean… kill someone?”

“Don’t think of it as killing,” he started the engine, “think of it as borrowing a life.”

“That isn’t funny.”

“Tough crowd.”

He reversed fast and hard, causing Ginny to jerk forward, catching herself against the dash a heartbeat before headbutting it. She turned with a scowl, wrenching the harness strap across her middle.

“I’m not killing anyone. I already told Bella I’ll only drink bags—”

“There’s no more bags.” He put the car into drive, surging forward at dangerous speeds. “We’ll see how long your resolve lasts when you’re starving.”

She fussed with the belt clip, losing grip on the fastener when they made a tight left. Her body smashed against the door as he narrowly avoided the curb, the hospital rapidly fading in their rearview. The vehicle settled as it barrelled forward.

Ginny tossed the harness aside with a groan, Fred’s voice filling her head. _Take it off when you know you’re gonna crash_. The belt was only useful for fender-benders. At this speed, the safety precaution would sooner break her neck than save it. The steel body would undoubtedly detach from its frame in a high-velocity collision. If she was going to be ejected like a ragdoll she’d rather not be crushed by the seats when she rolled.

She crossed her arms and stewed in silence, paying little mind to the twisting ache in her gut.

“When’s the last time you drank?” Rabastan asked suddenly, knocking loose the anger that held her in its grasp.

She clenched her teeth, keeping her gaze fixed to the windshield.

“That’s what I thought,” he continued with a scowl, knuckles cracking over the metal wheel. “You’ve been giving your bags to the weakling—”

“She _isn’t_ a weakling,” Ginny challenged, her hunger yawning loudly now that it had been addressed.

“You should have let nature take its course. The transition separates the weak from the strong. Plying her with extra blood is merely a bandage solution to a hemorrhaging wound—”

“It worked, didn’t it? I got her through it and now she’s—”

“A hermit crab.”

Ginny rounded on him in a blaze of fury. “And whose fault is that? Every time she comes out of her room you snap and snarl and chase her back inside!”

“As I said, it’s my job to prepare you squalling infants for our world.”

“Bullshit. You’re just an asshole.”

He blinked, then glanced sideways. “Do I need to take back the whiskey?”

Her eyes flared wide. She reached into the floorboard, gripping the neck of the bottle. “Did I say asshole? I meant it as a compliment.”

He rolled his eyes, peering ahead and making another jarring turn, sending her toppling across the bench and nearly into his lap. She scrambled back with an angry flush, and then her gaze settled on the approaching landscape and her blood drained entirely.

An old trolley bridge stood in the distance, rotting and decayed against the moonlit sky. A large sawhorse blocked its entrance, accompanied by a plethora of warning signs. The car slowed, giving her time to read the notice posted in front of the dead-end. The site was deemed a structural hazard and scheduled for demolition next month, the public prohibited from entering.

In other words: prime real estate for vagrants.

“I’m not doing this, Rabastan. I don’t care how hungry I am, I can’t kill someone.”

“You’ll never survive—”

“Then let me die!” She shouted, nails pressing crescent grooves in the leather side panel. “You seem eager enough to be rid of me!”

A tense beat followed. His jaw ticked, eyes flashing as he stared ahead. Ginny braced for the cutting remark sure to follow.

“I’ll teach you how to feed without killing,” he offered instead, causing her to jolt with surprise and then straighten with hope. “But not tonight.”

Ginny deflated, shaking her head at her own foolishness.

“We need to bring back enough for all the fledglings,” he explained, as though it changed anything. “There’s only room in the trunk for one body. We’ll have to drain it.”

Ginny blinked, gazing blankly at the dead-end as it grew ever closer. The road turned to gravel, tires spitting pebbles into the tall grass.

“Let me out,” she said, hardly recognizing her own voice.

“Red…”

His warning tone pulled the clip. She exploded like a hand grenade, thrashing in her seat and beating her fists against the dashboard.

“I mean it, let me out of the goddamn car!”

He shook his head, ignoring her tantrum like she was an errant toddler. They were halfway down the gravel road, tall weeds to one side and an abandoned building on the other when she pulled her lock and tugged the handle, swinging the door wide.

“That’s it!” His voice boomed like thunder as he slammed on the brakes. “I’m done humoring you!”

Ginny scrambled free with a feral growl, boots crunching pebbles as she spun. “Do I look amused?” She slammed the door on his demonic expression and started up the path.

Rabastan leaned over, furiously rolling down her window as she crossed behind the trunk. “You think I won't leave you here?”

“I want you to!” She yelled over her shoulder, stomping across the road like it caused her personal offense.

The interior muffled his roar but she heard it just the same, her only warning before the vehicle flew into reverse. She scurried out of the way, scowling at the driver window as his homicidal face appeared at her side.

“Get in the fucking car—”

“Leave me alone!”

“Don’t make me come after you.”

She rolled her eyes, resuming her trek through the darkness. “Oh, I’m _so_ scared!”

Rabastan continued to reverse, keeping easy pace beside her. “Don’t make me get out of this car, Red. You _really_ don’t want to make me get out.”

“I _really_ don’t want to hear your bullshit, now piss off!”

“You stupid little b—”

“And what do we have here?” a third voice asked.

Rabastan pressed the brakes as Ginny spun around, or tried to, her attempt stunted as a man seized her from behind and pressed a blade to her throat. He smelled like stale sweat and moonshine, fingers stained black with grease.

“A lover’s quarrel? What a spot you picked. And in that fancy car…” He shook his head, squeezing her tighter and clicking his tongue in admonishment. “You _really_ shouldn’t have let your pretty girlfriend out of—”

“Do you mind, asshole?” Ginny interrupted. “We were kinda in the middle of something.”

The stranger stiffened, the knife pressing deeper beneath his chin. “Watch your fuckin mouth—”

“Can you get on with it?” She snapped, baring her teeth.

The idiot huffed in annoyance before turning his attention to the man seated calmly behind the wheel.

“Get out— _slowly_. Leave the keys in the ignition.”

Rabastan arched his brow with an air of supreme boredom. “What constitutes slowly?”

Though Ginny couldn't see her attacker's face she could hear his dumbfounded expression. "Are you both out of your fuckin minds? I'll kill the bitch!"

Rabastan’s grin was filled with cold delight. “If you could start by severing her larynx that would be great.”

“Get bent, Lestrange!”

“My point and case.”

“Shut up!” The man tightened his grip, scrambling for control. “I’m not fucking around here! Get out of the goddamn car or I’ll—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Ginny muttered, then proceeded to grab his restraining arm with both hands and drive her heel into his foot, snapping his ankle with a satisfying _crack!_

He wailed into her ear like a dying hound, dropping his blade and rearing back. Ginny held onto his arm and spun, dislocating the joint with an audible _pop_ before driving her elbow into his throat, sending him sprawling across the grass in a gagging heap.

"This is obviously your first carjacking so let me give you a piece of friendly advice," she offered in her most Hermione-Esque voice before tossing her hair matter-of-factly. "Always work with a partner, ideally two so you can have a designated lookout. One of you distracts the driver while the other sneaks around the side and—"

“Red.”

Ginny scowled, recalling the annoyance at her back. “Do you mind? We’re having a learning moment over here.”

Rabastan pinned her with a pointed look, indifferent to her ire. “When you’re done handing out criminal life lessons, check his arms for abscesses.”

Ginny and the man sprawled at her feet blinked, staring at the car in mutual confusion.

“I’m sorry?” She asked.

Lestrange sighed, turning off the ignition and opening his door. “I’d rather know if the blood’s diseased without having to taste it first.”

“That was never in Cosmo.”

“What the fuck are you two on?” The man sputtered, trying to scoot away while clutching his broken ankle.

Rabastan stalked through the grass like a jungle cat, eyes gleaming to match. Ginny stood aside as he grabbed the struggling human by the collar and wrenched him upright.

“Get away from me!” The man screamed, squirming like a worm on a hook as Rabastan stripped him of his tattered coat with one hand. “What the hell— please, I didn’t mean to—”

“Shut up,” Rabastan snapped, proceeding to rip his sleeve away with inhuman strength. “We’re having a learning moment.” And then he peered sideways, meeting Ginny’s transfixed gaze. “When you’re hunting on the streets always check for injections before feeding.”

The man keened, hanging limp. “Holy shit. Look, I’m sorry man—”

The rest of his plea was absorbed by a large palm as Rabastan pressed a hand to the human’s mouth and spun him around, pulling back his head and exposing his throbbing neck.

“Even if they aren't an addict the blood could still be infected,” Rabastan continued calmly, never breaking her stare. “You can usually taste it, sour and spoiled, so pay attention to flavor before ingesting.”

The man’s muffled squeal made her own blood sizzle and snap, stomach growling loudly. Ginny wet her lips, eyes drifting to his pulsing artery.

“Will infected blood kill us?” She asked, voice low and entranced.

Rabastan smirked, seemingly pleased by her change in attitude. “No, but it makes us sick. Especially fledglings. That’s why we start them with bags.”

Ginny swallowed, staring at the throbbing artery another frantic beat before forcing her gaze away. “Thanks for the fun facts.” She shuffled back, unsteady on her feet. “But I’m still not killing him.”

Rabastan raised a challenging brow, grin spreading to reveal a pair of gleaming fangs. “Suit yourself.”

Her breath and pulse stuttered as he descended in a blur, plunging his teeth through skin and muscle in a brutal strike. She heard his fangs puncture flesh, the man’s desperate cry and the wet squish of blood followed by a messy slurp and convulsive swallow. Lestrange was putting on a show, taking immense pleasure in torturing her at every turn. And worst of all, he held her gaze the entire time, irises burning bright as a stomach-growling fragrance filled the air.

Ginny swayed, trapped in place by his penetrating stare and the heady scent of blood. A steady purr met her ears, emanating from deep inside his chest. Her entire body throbbed before drawing closer beyond her mind’s control.

She came to her senses with only feet to spare, gasping sharply and staggering back. Rabastan lifted his head away, blood glistening on his mouth and chin and reflecting in the black pools of his eyes. He licked his lips with a sinister grin, basking in the post-feeding high.

“The blood’s clean. Warm and rich—”

“Stop,” she whispered, scrambling through weeds and rocks in her blind haste to escape.

“He pulled a blade on you.”

“He’s just a street runner.”

“Exactly. He won't be missed.”

Ginny swallowed, vision hazed by hunger and tears. "You don't know that."

“Correction: I don’t care, and neither should you.”

“I can’t—”

“You can and you must,” Rabastan stated, all traces of humor long-faded. “You accepted Bella’s offer for a reason. You left your old life for a reason. You put your family through hell for a _reason_.” He lowered his blood-smeared chin, shadows blooming across the sharp planes of his face. “It must be pretty goddamn important.”

Ginny swayed to a halt, overcome.

“Are you really going to throw away all that sacrifice for some low-life carjacker who holds knives to women’s throats?” He continued to dangle the dazed man aloft. Blood oozed in twin rivulets from the puncture marks in his neck, running over knotted bone and scarred flesh, disappearing beneath a sweat-stained collar.

Her hands twitched, heart pounding a call to war. "I…" She closed her eyes, counting backward from ten, a trick Harry had taught her—

 _Harry_.

Ginny opened her eyes on a swift exhale and turned to the head of the street, unsure what ached more, her stomach or her chest. Her eyes tracked the dark and quiet landscape without rhyme or reason, desperate for a new focal point, some means of distraction…

She found it. In the form her own face staring back at her from a sheet of paper.

Ginny blinked, rocking back on her heels before launching forward like a shot and racing up the gravel path. She skidded to a halt before the light post, its bulb flickering overhead and casting her two-dimensional likeness into a dizzying strobe. She held her breath and tore the sheet free, holding it close to her face and reading the text printed beneath her black and white graduation photo.

Something wet hit the paper, smudging the ink. Ginny wiped it away with a fingertip and glanced to the sky in confusion, only to realize the drop came from her eyes. She dried her cheeks and spun, marching across the gravel with renewed purpose. Rabastan held her gaze with resignation, feral intent faded from his countenance.

“Have you seen this?” She held the flyer aloft, charging forward.

He released the man without expression, the body hitting the ground with a thud. “They’re all over the city.”

The announcement struck her like a bullet. Ginny staggered, pressing a hand to the wound. “I have to go to them, I have to tell them I’m okay—”

“Showing up on their doorstep is the same as signing their death warrants.”

She paled, bunching the paper in her fist.

“If you truly love them, you’ll let them go,” Rabastan continued, the sincerity of his voice almost as frightening as the words themselves.

She peered at the heap of twisted limbs laid out between them. The man was still breathing, albeit barely, eyes closed and face lax.

“You were right. I’ve sacrificed far too much to walk away now.” Ginny shook her head, eyes flickering up. “And I refuse to sacrifice anything more. Not my humanity and _not_ my family.” She broke from their shared gaze and strode past, shoulders stiff with resolution. “I’ll be waiting in the car.”

* * *

Theo breathed a sigh of relief as he rounded the brick and started down the alley leading to home.

_Home?_

He shook his head, dispelling the useless notion as the paper bag crinkled in his grasp. By the time he'd flagged down a cab on the outskirts of Gramercy, the majority of restaurants and food carts had been shut down. Luckily, he'd found an eatery still billowing smoke from its roof while a line of customers wrapped its front. A Chinese restaurant, one of the few located outside of Chinatown, making it immensely popular among the Chelsea residents.

He hadn’t been sure what to order, or more specifically, what Anastasia would be able to keep down. A valid concern given her digestive tract wasn’t operational… then again, neither was her circulatory system and that certainly wasn’t slowing her down.

He rubbed his brow, tightening his grip on the bag as he moved around the dumpster, the scent of fried rice and dumplings overlaying the sour odor of garbage. Theo had been gone far longer than intended. He could only hope she’d been able to keep herself entertained in the meantime. He wondered if her mind had strengthened during his absence, or if perhaps she regressed…

_She might be dead. Again._

His heart lurched.

_Don’t be foolish. Your life will be exponentially easier if she’s returned to being a corpse._

And yet… Theo had managed to breach the veil of death, turning science and logic on its head —albeit accidentally— but the accomplishment was no less earth-shattering. Anastasia represented much more than a science experiment gone haywire. She was the key to understanding the fickle thread of mortality, the resilience of the human body and the untapped potential of the mind.

And on a smaller scale, she was the validation he’d been tirelessly hunting after his entire life. Undead proof his years of painstaking research and sacrifice weren’t for naught. Theo had been shunned and banished and humiliated. He’d given up everything to push science and medicine to the very limits of mankind’s comprehension. And now, finally, his life’s work came to fruition. It all meant something.

Which is why he prayed to a God he no longer believed in that she was still alive when he walked into the laboratory.

Theo stepped over a rotten crate, kicking the tattered remnants aside and peering up— He stopped in place, swaying in time to his throbbing pulse.

The accordion gate was bent back, nearly folded in half. The metal door behind the twisted barrier stood ajar, green light spilling onto the brick. He continued to stare, trying to process the meaning as fear rooted him to the spot.

A stray cat hissed at the mouth of the alley, knocking a trash can lid to the cement with a bang. Theo jolted, then sprung into motion, pacing carefully forward. He set the paper bag and his medical case on the ground, swallowing heavily as he extracted his keys. The gate was mangled enough to crawl over but he thought it best to unlock the barrier in the very likely event he needed to make a quick exit.

_This is madness. I should turn around right now._

But the words held little weight in his mind. His life’s work was inside and Theo would sooner die than leave it behind.

_Which seems quite probable._

His jaw tensed as he wrestled the gate aside, hinges creaking as he created a gap wide enough to slide through. Theo pressed a palm to the door and pushed gently. The barrier swung wide, revealing a gaping hole where the deadbolt should be.

_Fucking hell._

He took a deep breath and held, lungs screaming in protest as he crossed the threshold with coiling tension. The landing was still, the laboratory floor calm and quiet.

Theo released his breath in a rush, gripping the railing for balance. “Ana—”

He jolted as his foot grazed something heavy, metal scraping the grates in the floor. He peered down, heart leaping at the sight of the door handle beside his shoe.

He gripped the rail tighter, peering over the side. “Anastasia?” A soft shuffle echoed from somewhere below but he detected no movement. “Anastasia?” he called again, louder and more confident.

The silence that followed sent his pulse into overdrive until he was clinging to the bar with all his strength, terrified of fainting for the second time in as many days.

“I’m here,” came the soft reply from the darkness.

Theo blinked, shoulders easing at the sound. She was still cognizant. And most importantly, she wasn’t rushing the stairs in a blood-thirsty frenzy. He squinted and leaned forward, searching the shadows for her shape. “Are you alright?”

Another beat.

“Yes,” she whispered, barely audible.

He wet his lips, grip loosening on the rail. “What happened to the door?”

“I’m sorry.”

His heart skipped at the emotion in her voice. It seemed her development had continued in his absence after all. He was a fool to leave her alone. Theo released the bar and paced towards the stairs.

“Don’t,” she clipped, loud and forceful.

He paused at the top step, staring into the darkness. "Don't what?"

“Look at me.”

His stomach knotted tight. “Why not?”

Silence, followed by a faint shuffle until at last Theo caught movement in the far corner of the warehouse, furthest from where he stood. She hovered behind a shelf, green light reflecting off pale hair.

“Just… please don’t,” she begged, voice strained.

“Anastasia, are you hurt?”

She ducked her head, disappearing from sight. He clutched the handrail with stiff fingers and began his measured descent.

“Did something happen while I was gone?” He tried instead, hoping to coax her out of hiding.

“... yes.”

Another step. “Did you leave?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

His knuckles turned white. “You didn’t mean to leave?”

“He grabbed me and—”

“Who grabbed you?” Theo demanded, quickening his pace.

“— it was like I wasn’t there anymore. I felt like I wasn’t there but I was there and it wasn’t me but it must have been me and I couldn’t stop but I wanted to—”

“Anastasia, slow down,” he interrupted, reaching the main level, “start from the beg—”

His thoughts stuttered at the sight before him. The cage, busted and broken on the floor. It hadn’t been visible from the catwalk but now he viewed it in all its horror.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, darting forward and circling the twisted metal. The interior was empty, blood and wood shavings marking a path to the stairs. “They got out…” He dragged a hand over his mouth, stepping back. “Anastasia, _what_ happened?”

Her answering silence carved into his skin like broken glass.

“How did they get out?” Theo demanded, anger surmounting panic as he strode across the floor.

She cowered, knocking into boxes during her retreat. “I didn’t mean to!”

Her desperate cry made his chest ache but his steps refused to falter as he rounded the shelf.

“I didn’t mean to,” she repeated, voice faded as though talking to herself. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t I didn’t I didn’t—”

“Anastasia.”

“—I didn’t I didn’t I didn’t—”

Theo stepped into the shadows, vision obscured though he could see her silhouette pressed into the corner, hands covering her face like a child keeping monsters at bay. He swallowed thickly, lifting his palms and approaching slowly.

“Anastasia, it’s okay.”

Her rapid chanting continued under her breath, seemingly oblivious to his presence until he stopped just before her trembling form and gently grasped her shoulders.

She shrieked, arching away from the wall and crashing into him. Theo gasped and staggered back, then stiffened as she wrapped her arms around his middle and buried her face against his chest. He opened and closed his mouth, arms held awkwardly to either side as his mind went startlingly blank.

This newest development was… unexpected. Nearly as shocking as finding his door wrenched apart.

_Calm down._

“Calm down,” he repeated aloud for good measure. But Anastasia obviously thought the command was for her, falling limp against his front as though the words alone held a supernatural power.

Theo slowly lowered his arms, and then wrapped them around her even more slowly. His body was strung taut, unused to physical touch. But the contact seemed to ease her further so he tightened his grip until she sighed into his shirt. His heart skipped at the feeling of her lungs expanding against him.

_She can breathe?_

He peered down at the top of her head, watching her hair shimmer in the muted light, clean and healthy. Theo swallowed thickly, throat bobbing high as his arms fell away. She stiffened in turn, loosening her hold and leaning back.

It was then he noticed the coat. Battered and reeking of smoke, draping her slender figure in excess fabric. He inspected the garment at length, certain he’d never seen it before.

“Where did you get this?” He asked, eyes drifting.

She still wore his clothing beneath the outer layer but the shirt was stained dark as if she'd spilled ink down her front. His eyes moved lower. Her fingers were interlaced, nail beds caked with filth and flesh stained to the wrists like crusted red gloves—

Red.

Theo staggered as realization struck like lightning. His horrified gaze flickered up, inspecting the trail of dried blood marring her neck and chin, her lips and cheeks—

He stepped in something soft, the wet squish dragging his attention down. Theo cringed and lifted his foot, revealing a dark pool of… something, the gooey substance clinging to his shoe in black tendrils like tar.

“What…”

His lips remained parted, unable to formulate the right question in the wake of so much chaos.

“I really didn’t mean to,” she said, voice steady and clear.

He glanced up and then jerked back as she stepped forward. Anastasia stopped, brows knitted as though hurt by his retreat. But her slight movement made a world of difference… for it put her in the direct path of the standing light.

Theo exhaled slowly, inspecting her from bottom to top with careful precision.

Her bare feet were stained black, pants wrinkled and worn at the knees. The blood on her hands and shirt were unmistakable now, but the ghastly sight didn’t hold a flame to the flesh beneath.

Her neck was smooth and unblemished, absent the blue and violet bruises denoting her strangulation. Her face was equally transformed, skin warm and vibrant, healthy and alive. The circles beneath her lids were gone, broken capillaries faded. And her eyes…

Her eyes were bright and clear, gleaming and alert… And filled with shimmering amber.

Theo gaped at the stranger standing before him, nothing like the half-rotten corpse he’d left behind.

“Anastasia…” he whispered, voice tightened by dread, “what did you do?”

She wrapped both arms around her middle, glowing eyes overfilled by tears.

“I fed.”

* * *

Tom tilted his head back, holding silent council with the moon as he leaned into the brick storefront. He'd taken position against the quiet patisserie as soon as the sun set. The venue was prime hunting ground, off the beaten path but still within eye line of the Church. Her senses were dull yet, she had no hope of spotting him at such a distance. But he would be able to track her arrival quite easily. Assuming she came at all.

His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing on a meteor visible only through his enhanced vision. The night sky was usually a welcome distraction, one he rarely had the pleasure of partaking in, but tonight it failed to lead his mind astray. Too much hung in the balance for Tom to breathe easy, to let his guard down for even a moment. Everything he’d been working towards for the better part of a century all came down to this…

A human woman. Who just happened to stumble into his path like a freight train, destroying all his carefully laid plans in a matter of a night. But Tom refused to leave his fate in her mortal hands, to allow anyone such power over him again. And turning back _certainly_ wasn’t an option. Not now, after everything he’d sacrificed—

No. The mission would continue forward as planned, he just needed to make a few minor adjustments to account for her presence. Ms. Granger was now a part of his designs, for better or worse, and he’d evolve them accordingly. If there was one skill Tom had in spades, it was the ability to survive.

He tipped his gaze forward, sliding his hands into his pockets and tracing the edge of the key fob with his thumb. While he wasn't particularly fond of driving in the city, almost always preferring rooftops to roads, they had a lot of ground to cover before sunrise. In truth, Tom was looking forward to the brief reprieve from his everyday tasks. Overseeing the business was child's play but managing the city's humans was a task in futility he was happy to relinquish to his second-in-command for a few days.

Just then, a young woman passed the front of the closed patisserie, gaze averted down and shoulders drawn in. Her rapid pace slowed as she caught sight of Tom, eyes widening as she met his gleaming gaze. Her heart skipped before thrumming loudly in his ears, fear cutting through the damp in a pungent cloud. Her gulp echoed as she forced her stare away and continued ahead, nearly sprinting outright.

Tom smirked, pleased to see at least some of the city’s youth had a shred of common sense about them, able to see past beauty and allure to the danger dwelling beneath. And then, just as suddenly, his thoughts were broken apart in a violent strike, awareness fragmented and reformed around one central focal point.

The air rippled, a shockwave of energy emanating from a spot in the distance. He stood from the wall, spine lengthening as his skin absorbed the blast, muscles tensed with anticipation. Her scent reached him in the next heartbeat, tinged with an unmistakable undercurrent of fear that did nothing to diminish its appeal. The heady intensity hardly seemed real, as though she was sweating pure pheromones. Tom had never encountered a human with such ability. Surely it was caused by the virus, but why was it engineered to attract their own kind?

The festering unease that she wouldn’t come dissolved away in a satisfying rush. Time was working against them and he hadn’t been looking forward to battling the darkly-warded mansion to get to her.

Hermione materialized a moment later, rounding the corner at the bottom of the hill and appearing on the verge of collapse. He tilted his head, studying her carefully. She was further along than anticipated, so much so it was a miracle she’d even make it this far.

Tom began to pace forward, teeth clenching as she stumbled in her tracks. She was weak, exhausted and clumsy, her supernatural abilities obviously dormant. It would be easy to take her now, quick and effortless—

_Don’t rush it. Remember all that hangs in the balance._

He rolled his head along his shoulders, neck cracking loudly. Bloody hell, two centuries and patience was still his greatest shortfall.

Tom watched her begin the uphill trek, swaying precariously as she navigated the pavement, and was once again impressed by her sheer determination. His Egyptologist had pulled a blade during their first encounter, knowing full well the extent of Tom’s abilities, only to fight off his mental hold with equal determination.

She was almost to the Church now, steps slowing before the towering gate. Tom wet his lips, wondering if she'd balk, if she even had the energy left to run. He'd given her leeway, the illusion of a choice, everything carefully orchestrated for her own sense of free will.

But he was done playing games.

If she tried to evade him again he’d simply take her in the middle of the street and deal with any witnesses later. They were out of time, her transition set to start before sunrise and his Maker set to arrive in mere days.

Tom started forward once more, only to pause a second time, shoulders drawing wide as she opened the gate and entered the Churchyard. The corner of his mouth lifted. _Good girl_. It seemed she was just as eager to end this frustrating game of cat and mouse. Her intelligent mind undoubtedly demanded answers. Or perhaps it was her bleeding heart leading the charge, forcing her rising hunger away from those she loved. It made no difference either way, Tom couldn’t care less about her motivations. All that mattered was she was here, which meant she was his.

He watched Hermione climb the steps, her entire body strung taut as a bowstring. Her scent had changed as well, the tang of anxiety coating the back of his tongue. Tom wondered what she feared more, the creature he was or the thing she was becoming. He’d chosen the Church to put her at ease but it was obviously having little effect.

_Seems I’ll have to take care of the rest on my own._

Which was just as well. They’d be spending quite a bit of time together in the coming days, the sooner he brought her under thumb the better.

_It’s time, Hermione._

Tom sent the thought forward without intention, so closely attuned to her frantic pulse he lost control of his faculties.

She reached for the door and stiffened, then spun with a powerful jolt, searching the Churchyard to no avail. Searching for him. The knowledge caused his body to throb as he stalked forward with single-minded focus, blood heating with the thrill of the hunt.

Meanwhile, his clever Egyptologist recovered her senses and wrenched the doors wide, fleeing into what she surely thought was her safe haven for the night.

Tom smiled, gums throbbing with anticipation.

* * *

Hermione burst inside so quickly she tripped over the threshold, catching herself against the back of a pew. The doors closed softly at her back, safely encasing her in the dimly lit Church. And yet she remained braced for attack, uncertain if the challenge would be waged from behind or above. Though surely whatever Riddle had in store for her was better than being struck down by the Almighty. But the longer she lingered the more her pulse slowed.

Finally, Hermione released the pew and stood straighter, as much as her knotted stomach would allow, and gazed around the room. There was a small scattering of parishioners at this hour, everyone absorbed in prayer. No one glanced in her direction, no monsters lingered in the dark corners. She took a deep breath and started down the center aisle, passing between prisms of moonlight cast through the stained glass before pausing halfway down, overcome by the sight at the other end. Row upon row of candles filled the back wall, their flickering glow illuminating faces in the front pews and a massive crucifix mounted from ceiling to floor.

It had been many years since Hermione had set foot in a Church. Her mother used to take her to Sunday mass but as Hermione grew older she became less concerned with sermons and more concerned with sleeping in. Her mother had never pressured her, never lectured or twisted her arm. She merely began attending by herself. At the time, Hermione felt the swift relief of escaping a burdensome chore without punishment. Looking back, she felt crushing regret for giving up one of the few experiences they shared together.

Hermione gripped the edge of a neighboring pew for support, lost to memory and pain.

“Excuse me, dear.”

Hermione gasped, nearly losing her balance as she spun in place, coming face to face with an elderly woman holding a walking cane.

“Oh! I’m terribly sorry,” Hermione uttered quickly, pressing flat to the pew.

“That’s quite alright,” the woman replied with a kind smile, slowly edging past.

Hermione watched her slow and creaky progress between the rows, unable to ignore the mounting discomfort in her own body. Her muscles felt atrophied, bones brittle, blood thickening while her cells withered and curled.

_Christ, can I be any more dramatic?_

She swept the hair from her face and then blinked, replaying her words and glancing to the ceiling.

_Shit! Was that taking your name in vain? I didn't mean to— Crap, I didn't mean to say shit— Fuck I did it again… Oh my god, I just thought fuck in Church—_

_Stop saying it! Hurry, think of something else, anything but fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…_

Hermione rubbed her eyes, another dizzy spell tilting the floor beneath her feet. “I’m going straight to hell.”

Gooseflesh erupted across her limbs. She chalked it up to whatever parasite was hollowing out her stomach until the air swelled, crackling with electricity. Currents pulsed before her eyes as though the atmosphere had a heartbeat, steady and calm compared to her own. Hermione glanced around but no one else seemed to notice the anomaly.

And instantly, she knew.

_He’s here._

She peered around the Church once more, his angular face absent from the pews.

_But where?_

As if to answer her own question, her head turned to the front doors of its own accord. Hermione exhaled swiftly. _Of course_. She gathered what was left of her bearings and pushed forward, vision fading in and out with every labored step.

_Don’t pass out don’t pass out…_

She swayed before the doors, fingers twitching as they reached for the handles and pulled. A cold draft circled her body like a wind tunnel, billowing her skirt and scattering dead leaves across the tile. The candles flickered wildly in their holders, shadows dancing along the walls before the storm abruptly settled. Everything fell still and silent as a vacuum, drawing the breath from her lungs with the same invisible force.

And then she saw him.

Her eyes flickered to the side of the gate on instinct, drawn by a powerful magnet to where he stood. Riddle held himself in absolute stillness, waiting, watching, hardly seeming to breathe. His gaze radiated a current of energy she felt along her spine, and even at this distance, she could see the predatory gleam in his stare, the unnatural glow of his irises.

She hovered in the doorway, pulse throbbing in her neck and wrists and knees as the physical touch of his gaze began a slow descent. Her skin crawled even as her thighs clenched. Hermione flushed, nerve endings blistered by confusion and shame. And as if sensing the downward spiral of her thoughts Riddle glanced up. Their eyes locked and time stood still, fear and uncertainty fading into the ether of her mind for a blessed moment. Until he smirked, something sinister unfurling in the expanding darkness of his pupils.

_No more games._

Hermione released the doorway and started forward, resolved to see this through on her terms. She took the stairs slowly, lifting her arms for balance until reaching the bottom step without concussion, and then she glanced up, meeting his darkly amused stare through the bars as she approached the fence.

“You received my invitation,” he said by way of greeting, breaking the silence at last.

“Is that what it was?” She replied, mustering the energy to lift her brow. “Your delivery method seemed more demand.”

He tilted his head, focus unwavering. “I wanted your attention.”

“You certainly have it. What did you do to Slughorn?”

“Such an unfortunate name, and yet so very fitting.”

Hermione glared, coming to a stop just before his towering form, the heavy gate their only barrier.

_Not the only… there’s another force at play here. He must not be able to cross the property line._

The thought instilled her with a minor sense of security, though it was quickly overridden by the gnawing ache in her gut. She pressed a hand to her middle and fought back a cringe. But he tracked the movement the ease, jaw tensing as a sharp gasp escaped her lips on a particularly violent twinge.

“What did you do to him?” She repeated, breathless with fatigue.

His eyes flickered up. “I merely compelled your galling neighbor to deliver the missive on my behalf. No harm was inflicted beyond the torture of listening to him maunder on for hours on end.”

“Excuse me if I’m reluctant to trust the man who threatened my life.”

“That was before I knew the value of it.”

Another cramp seized her, the force nearly buckling her knees. She gripped the iron bars to stop from doubling over, eyes squeezing tight and teeth grinding. She felt his eyes upon her all the while, watching as she suffered. His steady calm should have annoyed her. Instead, it provided an unexpected sense of calm, an anchor in the raging storm of her pain.

“It’s started,” he announced simply, sounding closer than moments before.

She dropped her forehead against the metal, swallowing heavily as her muscles slowly unclenched. “I’m becoming one of you.”

“Not quite.”

Her lids peeled open, eyes gleaming hopefully. He lifted a dark brow, so close she could feel his cool breath on her face, the low hum that seemed to emit from his body, filling her head and seeping into her bones.

“Don’t get too excited. You’re becoming a vampire, I’m just not certain what kind.”

Hermione released a sharp breath, lifting her head from the gate with the last of her strength. “What do you want?”

“At the moment, you.”

Her heart skipped as he shifted closer, nearly touching the bars. “Come with me and I’ll explain everything.”

She started to respond but all that emitted was a startled cry, another cramp starting. “It hurts,” she muttered, as though her outburst needed explanation.

“I can take the pain away.”

Hermione snapped to attention, tears pooling atop her lashes. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Is there a way to stop the transition?” She asked, gripping the bars until her fingers turned white.

His gaze roamed her face, indifferent to the eager lilt of her voice. “No.”

Hermione sank back on her heels, unaware she’d pressed forward in the first place. The finality of his tone cut something frail and precious away inside her, the last bit of light swallowed by the churning darkness.

_What does it matter? You can’t believe a word he says…_

She was nothing but his means to some nefarious end. Riddle didn’t care about her well-being, no matter the lies he spouted now. He was still the man she’d met three nights prior, threatening her life and pinning her to the wall without reservation or remorse.

“I know why you want me,” Hermione stated plainly, watching him with thinly veiled suspicion. “The ashes contain the original virus.”

His eyes flashed, irises lightening until they rivaled the brightness of the waxing moon above.

“It’s evolved over millenniums,” she continued, his absolute stillness providing all the confirmation she needed. “You want to see what happens to me, what the unmutated source turns me into.” Hermione wet her lips and his gaze lowered to her mouth. “Because right now, you’re just as clueless as I am.”

She braced for his reaction, the explosive anger and casual violence she’d been subjected to in her office. But she wasn’t prepared for his answering smile, the way it transformed his face and danced within his eyes. Surely it was just an act, another mask. But it was breathtaking all the same, holding her still beneath its frightening perfection.

“Very astute, Ms. Granger.” He reached up and gripped the bars, hands settling just beneath her own, the warmth of his skin seeping into her fingers, her wrists, her arms and chest.

_Wasn’t his touch ice cold before?_

"I rarely encounter such intelligence in humans," he continued, brushing her musing aside. "Then again, I spend most nights sifting through the gutter dredge of society. You've been a welcome if frustrating reprieve."

“Stop. You’re making me blush.”

“Hm.” He arched a brow at her wooden response, the sparkling grin giving way to a wry smirk, equally mesmerizing.

Hermione tore her gaze away, shaking her head and chastising herself. The attraction wasn’t real, their banter carefully crafted to put her at ease, his smile as manufactured as the rest of his persona. A carefully laid trap, no different from those hidden inside ancient tombs and pyramids. Pressurized salt acid waiting to sear her flesh from the bone.

Riddle tilted his head, smirk fading as he studied her face. He must have read the resistance in her eyes for he changed tactics with stunning ease, hands dropping from the gate and slipping into his pockets in a disarming gesture. And then his body tipped forward, closing the distance between them as he propped a shoulder against the bar. His face hovered just above her, so close Hermione could see the tiny flecks of gold hidden between the dilated pupil and dark grey limbal ring of his eyes.

She leaned forward in turn, weight settling against the bars beyond her notice or control.

“But you aren’t entirely accurate, luv,” he murmured, each words dancing across her heated face. “I’m not clueless. I know what the transition entails, what your body needs.” His gaze lowered to the thrumming artery in her neck. She swallowed thickly. “And though you may prove a unique case, I can see you safely through it.” He met her eye once more. “Without me you _will_ die, that I assure you.”

Hermione deflated with her next breath. “All I’m certain of is you'll do anything to get your way.”

He smiled again, though it lacked the lightness of its predecessor. This version appeared darker, meaner, and then she realized she was no longer gazing upon a mask.

“Now that statement _is_ wholly accurate,” he admitted without an ounce of shame. “I’ll do anything to keep you alive, Hermione. Because I need you. If you only trust one thing about me, let it be this: I always act within my own self-interest. No exceptions.”

Her grip on the bars tightened, relying on the gate to stay upright. “And when you no longer need me?”

“When that day comes you won’t need me either. We’ll simply go our separate ways, no harm, no foul.”

She closed her eyes, unable to stare at him and think at the same time. But her knees chose that moment to give out, hands tensing to prevent total collapse. Riddle growled, the echoing rumble drawing her focus as he bore down upon her.

“Hermione, you _must_ come with me. The start of the transition is the most dangerous.”

“I won’t hurt anyone, Tom,” she hissed sharply, hardly aware she’d used his first name as her intestines wrung like a mop. “I won’t kill—”

“I’ve secured a private location, secluded, safe. You won’t harm anyone.”

She slipped lower, arms rapidly losing strength. “I can’t drink blood…”

“We can discuss it on the road but we need to leave _now_.”

She began to sink towards the grass, eyes drifting. “Harry—”

“Your father and friends will be fine in your absence,” he snapped forcefully, lowering to match her descent.

“No, Harry—”

“I realize self-sacrifice is a chronic shortcoming of your gender but you _must_ overcome the compulsion and put your own well-being first.”

Hermione reached the ground, huffing with aggravation. “Shut. Up.”

Tom blinked, lips parting but no words coming forth. Hermione took a mental polaroid of his dumbfounded expression for her future enjoyment because at the present moment she lacked the necessary energy to laugh. And yet what she lacked even more of was _time_ , especially since the current source of her mounting anxiety was barrelling up the street like a man possessed.

“Harry… is… behind you.”

Tom arched a dark brow before glancing over his shoulder. “That he is.” He rose to his full height with blurring speed, reminding her exactly what he was capable of. “Is he stupid enough to challenge me?”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation, clutching the grass and trying to push upright.

Riddle smirked as he turned to face the street. “Don’t go far. This won’t take long.”

“Don’t hurt him,” she called, tears welling as he started forward, malevolence glowing in his eyes.

Hermione reached for the gate, clinging to the bars as Tom’s deep and menacing laughter carried on the wind with his parting words.

“No worries, luv. He won’t feel a thing.”

* * *

Harry tapped the brakes and rounded the corner, heart battering his ribs with bruising force as he pulled into the lot at the base of the hill. The road leading up was designed for carriage and foot traffic, too narrow and soft to traverse by vehicle. Private property was spared from the city’s transportation ordinance, much to Harry’s chagrin, so he put the Phantom into park as the engine rumbled its dissent like a wild beast, echoing the sentiments of its driver quite succinctly.

He leaned forward, forearms bracing the wheel as he peered through the windshield and gave the hillside a sweeping once-over. The Church stood at its peak, cutting a magnificent sight against the inky sky. The stars twinkled in all their splendor, outlining the towering walls and narrow spire. The moon hovered directly above its apex, hung in position by an omnipotent hand.

Harry stared at the waning crescent for another endless beat, squeezing the wheel until the steering column groaned between his hands. And then he forced his gaze away, drained by the effort, and caught sight of something even more disturbing at the base of the Church.

A man stood before the rod iron gates, dark suit fading into the backdrop of night with seamless camouflage. But his pale skin stood in stark relief, as did the bloodless face peeking out from behind his shoulder, recognizable at any distance…

Hermione. Slumped against the bars, looking on the verge of death.

The stranger sidled closer, close enough to touch her, to reach through the bars and strangle her— and then he shifted, wide-set shoulders blocking her from view.

Harry released a feral snarl, having just enough forethought to rip the keys from the ignition before throwing open the door and losing all rationality. He was halfway up the street when Hermione began a slow collapse. His steps faltered, terrified she’d fainted, or worse— But her eyes remained open, staring past the man’s legs and meeting Harry’s wild gaze.

And then the stranger was pivoting, facing the street and Harry along with it, expression wrought with dark amusement and not a trace of surprise or trepidation. Harry sussed out his identity in that same moment, worst fears confirmed.

 _Riddle_.

A roar echoed in his head, blood boiling as the bastard stalked forward with an unhurried gait.

“Get away from her!” Harry shouted, red seeping into his vision.

“Harry Potter. We meet at last.”

The casual greeting made Harry slow, disrupting his rage with an arctic blast of unease.

Riddle tucked his hands into his pockets and stopped at the top of the hill, calmly awaiting his adversary's attack. "Then again, I know so much about you I feel as though we've already met."

“You don’t know jack shit about me.”

Riddle tipped his head, supremely unaffected by the scathing retort. “I heard about your godfather’s untimely demise. My sincerest condolences.”

He didn’t sound the least bit sincere. Harry reared back, only a few yards of pavement between them. “How…”

“Your neighbor is quite the gossip. He was kind enough to provide me with all your skeletons.”

Harry’s teeth clenched, his fists and muscles quick to follow, calloused knuckles cracking with anticipation. “Not all of them,” he uttered gravely, voice deepening beyond his control.

Riddle’s eyes glowed brighter than the stars above as they performed a methodical inspection of Harry’s front. Something sparked at their dark centers, a striking realization made though it seemed to surprise him little.

“Yes, I see you kept a few for yourself.” His steel gaze lifted, all-knowing and deeply unsettling. “Have you told Hermione?”

Harry blinked, feet locked in their offensive stance. "Don't say her name."

“I’ll take that as a no,” Riddle surmised with a sinister grin, the sight of which released Harry from his panic-induced stupor.

_Wipe that fucking smile off his face._

Harry growled and charged forward on a dizzying surge of adrenaline. The hormone flooded his system and filled every vein, dispelling every ounce of blood while his neurons sparked in a frenzy, bursts of light appearing in his peripheral as his brain lost control of the reins. He was distantly aware of Riddle’s deep laughter, and then red overtook his vision and he was aware of nothing but feral rage.

Harry gripped the front of the finely tailored jacket and drove the fucker backward, pavement scuffing their shoes and laughter ringing through the air until a towering barrier halted their progress with bone-jarring force. Riddle suffered the worst of the impact, slammed against the iron gate with enough muscle to sway the entire row, the metallic hum radiating through Harry’s entire body. The blow to his skull and spine would have crippled a mortal man but Riddle remained unphased, eyes gleaming with mirth as he held Harry’s golden stare.

“Impressive, Mr. Potter.”

The mocking lilt tore another growl from Harry’s throat. He was beyond words, beyond reason, all he wanted was to concave that goddamn smug face, shatter every bone and rip the cartilage, pound the flesh until it tore wide and formed a gelatinous paste.

_Make him bleed. Make him scream._

Harry pinned his forearm across Riddle’s throat and drew back his opposing fist, bicep tightening as he readied the strike. Riddle tilted his head with obvious boredom, making no attempt to dispel or evade. Harry bared his teeth like an animal, tucking his thumb and aligning his first two knuckles with the grinning target.

_Make him bleed make him scream…_

His rotary cuff popped as he executed a right cross with all his strength, pivoting his torso and hips for added momentum.

“Harry, don’t!” Hermione screamed, jarring his concentration as she invaded his peripheral.

Riddle veered left at the last possible second, slipping the restraining arm with ease. Harry blinked, too deep into the swing to recover its path. His fist made contact with solid iron, the resounding _thwack_ filling every corner of his mind as the metal bent around his hand and tore the skin like tissue paper.

His bones were spared but Harry howled all the same, blinded by the white-hot flash across his nerve endings, arm vibrating from wrist to shoulder as it absorbed the brutal impact. He staggered back, rubbing his elbow and whipping around, watching Hermione limp closer.

“Stay back, Mione!”

Tears over spilled her eyes but she refused to relent, clinging to the bars and stumbling through the grass, skin pale as death. “ _Please_ —”

"Stay back!" Harry repeated, roar deepening as the red overtook his senses once more, washing clean every pain and worry and thought until all that remained was raw desperate hunger. He spun with dexterous swiftness, hunting hunting hunting— _there_.

His prey stood only ten feet away, removing his jacket with unhurried calm.

“You’re a boxer,” Riddle stated, and even through his accent Harry was certain he heard a note of intrigue. “Good.” He glanced up, eyes darkening as he rolled up his sleeves. “It’s been decades since I’ve faced a half-decent opponent.” He smiled, ivory fangs catching the moonlight. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Harry’s jaw ticked as he fell into basic stance, left fist raised to guard position. Riddle rolled his shoulders back, fingers flexing. And then they started to circle each other.

“Tom, if you so much as lay a hand on him you’ll never see me again!” Hermione yelled from the other side of the fence.

Harry’s muscles tensed at her casual use of his first name. Riddle’s lips quirked, seemingly pleased by her informal address, or perhaps he was merely basking in Harry’s heightened agitation.

"Don't make your first promise to me be one you can't keep, luv," he replied with no small amount of amusement, never taking his eyes from his opponent.

“If you hurt him I’ll never help you.”

Harry scowled, tracking Riddle’s movements. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m confident you’re both idiots,” Hermione snapped, sinking to the grass as her legs buckled. “You should be struck by lightning for brawling outside a Church.”

Riddle’s smirk rose, gaze still fastened to Harry. “Is she always this uptight?”

“I hope you get the first bolt,” she replied with venom before slumping into the bars, resigned to watching the shit show play out.

Harry didn't want to disappoint. He lunged forward, feinting left and executing a simple jab to disguise his pivot. Riddle easily rolled the hit, as anticipated, and moved into the path of a spinning backfist. The added rotation gave Harry's strike momentum as it barrelled towards his opponent's ear. But Riddle blocked the connection with a forearm, his rigid musculature structure rivaling the iron gate.

Harry bit back a growl, lost to the thrill of the fight, the hypnotic trance that blanketed his mind every time he taped his wrists and stepped into the ring.

Riddle flashed a lethal grin before going on the offensive, shoulders pulling tight as he slipped into a clean starting position. Harry barely had time to brace his feet before the vampire delivered a combination of rapid-fire hits with textbook precision. A jab, right cross, and left hook drove Harry back toward the gate, nearly cornered against the ropes. And as loath as Harry was to admit, he was reluctantly impressed.

According to every trainer Harry had ever worked with his own fighting style was wild and messy, try as he might to add structure to the routine. But what he lacked in clean lines and uniformed approach he more than made up for in speed and unpredictability, turning him into an effective adversary all the same.

Harry dodged the incoming headshots like a swinging pendulum, slipping left, then right, then left again, bending and pivoting with agile reflexes before bursting free of his defensive crouch with a mighty uppercut.

Riddle tried to shoulder the blow but couldn’t rotate away in time, taking part of the hit beneath his jaw, much to their mutual shock. The vampire staggered back, blinking twice as though processing the occurrence. Harry surged forward, taking advantage of his opponent's momentary lapse by raining a combination of hits against his torso. A shovel hook to the liver, a leopard blow between the ribs, an upset to the center of the abdomen. The latter felt like punching a bag of rocks, Harry’s knuckles singing with the impact.

He knew a headshot was the only way to take a fighter like Riddle out but the bastard was too skilled at anticipating high blows. Harry hoped to distract him with body strikes long enough to sneak in the knockout. Alas, Riddle blocked with his elbows and forearms, absorbing the hits he couldn’t roll with little to no reaction. It was then Harry made a startling realization.

Riddle was merely playing with him.

The discovery shattered his focus and bled into his face, quickly discerned by his opponent’s astute gaze.

“Impressive, Mr. Potter,” he said between dodges, smile spreading like a cancerous growth. “But now it’s my turn.”

Harry's heart leaped. He'd been careful to stay below or beside the man throughout their tussle, the same as he would in the ring, but something in the vampire's eyes told him now was a good time to back the fuck up. He staggered aside as Riddle sprang forth in a blur of motion, further proof he'd been holding back throughout their match for his own amusement.

He grabbed Harry by the throat and lifted him clear off the ground before spinning and slamming him into the gate, rattling the iron structure. Harry gagged and kicked, pulling desperately at the hand constricting his airway.

“No!” Hermione screamed from out of sight. But Harry couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t draw a full breath, his vision completely filled by Riddle’s menacing face as he leaned forward and issued a low-spoken threat.

“If you brought the Cursed into my city I’ll hunt and slaughter every last one of them, starting with you.”

Harry blinked, tears blurring his eyes and fire searing his lungs. He opened his mouth but could only gasp, bracing his feet against the gate for leverage. Riddle loosened his grip just enough for Harry to wheeze, greedily sucking in air before coughing each word.

“I don’t… know… what you’re… talking about.”

Riddle’s gaze narrowed and lifted, settling on the jagged scar. Harry stiffened, prying uselessly at the restraining hand.

“You think I can't smell it?” Riddle asked with a twisted sneer. “The taint is seeping from your bloody pores. I can _feel_ it crawling over my skin like maggots.”

Harry tried to swallow but the obstruction caught in his throat, feet scrambling desperately against the bars.

“I’m done playing games,” Riddle pressed on, fangs framing his statement. “Killing you is by far the most practical solution. However, watching me rip your spinal column through your neck will undoubtedly cause Hermione undue stress, something I’m keen on avoiding at the present moment.” His eyes hardened to diamond points. “You can’t protect her from what’s coming. I can.”

“Tom.”

Riddle jolted as a hand gripped his arm. Hermione materialized at his side, face a blurred smudge on Harry’s field of vision. But he could hear the simmering anger in her voice, undercut by sheer exhaustion, allowing him to picture her expression with perfect clarity.

“Put him down. _Now_.”

A beat. Then two.

The hand at his throat released. Harry dropped to the ground and leaned against the gate, coughing into his fist as he felt the dark presence at his front recede.

“We’re leaving,” Riddle stated, the finality of his tone pulling Harry’s bloodshot gaze forward.

Hermione was listed into the devil’s side, his arm looping her waist as he began to lead her away. Harry drew to his full height, staggering after them.

“She isn’t going _anywhere_ with you—”

“Yes, I am,” she interrupted, pressing a hand to Riddle’s chest to stop his progress. He had the gall to look annoyed but relented all the same, eyeing Harry with silent menace as she stepped free of his hold.

“I’m so sorry I left the way I did, Harry. I just wanted to keep you safe. I _need_ to keep you safe.”

Harry swallowed thickly, reaching out his hand. “I know. But you don’t need him, Mione. We can figure it out—”

“There is no figuring it out!” She cried, holding his gaze and swaying precariously. Both men stiffened, braced to catch her, yet she managed to remain upright all her own. “Don’t you get it? It’s too late, Harry! I’m changing and there’s _nothing_ we can do to stop it!” Tears glistened on her cheeks as she pressed both hands to her chest. “You don't know what it's like having this darkness inside you, sitting in constant wait, stewing in constant hunger—”

“I do,” Harry croaked, voice strained by emotion and fear. He took a measured step closer, afraid to blink, to breathe, anything that could scare her off. “I know exactly what it’s like, Hermione. And I can teach you to fight it. I promise I can help you.”

“You don’t know the first thing about what’s happening, Mr. Potter,” Riddle stated calmly from his brooding position at her back. “With Hermione _or_ yourself.”

Harry ignored him, lifting his hand once more. “We’ll figure it out together, Mione. We always do.”

“And what happens when you lose control?” Riddle asked, refusing to fade into the background.

Harry took a steadying breath, fighting down the rising anger and hatred stirring just beneath the surface. He didn’t have the willpower to overcome it twice in one night. Riddle tilted his head, studying Harry’s visage as though the truth were written clear as day across it.

“Who will take care of her when the greatest threat to her safety is you?”

Harry’s arm dropped to his side like a withered vine, chest pulling tight. “You aren’t taking her,” he growled, and then the red overtook him in a blinding rush. He strode past Hermione without a backward glance, all of his focus settled on the enemy ahead.

_Kill him. It’ll fix everything._

Riddle sighed, shaking his head as though Harry were the biggest fucking idiot he’d encountered west of the Atlantic. He made no move to fight or defend, merely crossed his arms and tracked Harry’s bristling approach with supreme unconcern.

Good. Maybe this time the bastard would stand still long enough for Harry tear his fucking head off. He inhaled swiftly, fingers curling like claws—

Something hard hit the base of Harry’s skull, causing his shoulder blades to tighten as he staggered forward, blinking quickly. Riddle raised a dark brow, watching the scene unfold with an air of impatience. Harry slowly turned, knowing what awaited him but needing to see it with his own eyes.

Hermione stood just behind him, hands covering her mouth as tears streamed down her face.

“Mi… Mione…” He muttered, dropping to his knees.

She sniffled loudly, lowering before him and taking his face in her palms. “I’m so sorry, Harry.”

He opened his mouth but could only produce a labored breath. Her thumbs stroked along his jaw, a soothing gesture that seemed to be mostly for her benefit.

“I love you,” she whispered, misery swimming in her eyes as he slumped forward. His face pressed into her neck, her frantic pulse thumping against his cheek.

And then blackness pulled him under.

* * *

Hermione choked on a sob as she sank back on her heels, carefully lowering Harry to the pavement and placing his head in her lap. She wiped her cheeks with one hand and brushed the hair from his eyes with the other, gazing at his still face with festering guilt.

Footsteps approached slowly, long legs appearing at her side, their owner blissfully silent as she collected her bearings.

“We can’t leave him in the street,” she said at last, voice thin with exhaustion. She glanced up, meeting Tom’s gaze. His face was tilted down and cast in shadow, but the sinister visage did nothing to deter her mission. “Help me move him.”

He arched a dark brow, holding her stare a moment longer before shaking his head and rubbing his brow. "Fucking hell," he muttered under his breath, then proceeded to lean down and grab Harry beneath the armpits, dragging him off her lap and towards the gate with seemingly no effort.

Hermione watched her friend’s limp form slide past and felt something inside her wither and decay. She lifted a trembling hand and stared at her palm, the same one she’d used to knock Harry unconscious. She’d had little faith it would work, certain she was too weak to even make a fist… but she’d gathered the final vestiges of her strength and struck out with the heel of her hand, desperate to stop Harry before he got himself killed.

 _I can’t believe I knocked him out…_ Her fingers curled. _It must have been the virus… What if I gave him a concussion? Brain damage?_

Her hand dropped to her lap, heavy and limp, body officially depleted of all energy stores.

_I said fuck in church and gave my best friend brain damage… I hate Mondays._

“Relax, the bloody fool isn’t dead,” Riddle scathed from the gate as though reading her mind. Hermione stiffened at the prospect. Mind-numbing pain and insatiable blood-thirst was one thing, but if the virus caused her to emit thought bubbles like a comic-strip character she was officially throwing in the towel.

But her musings were cut short as she spotted Tom behind the fence depositing her friend’s sprawling body in the middle of the lawn.

“You can enter holy ground?”

“Yes,” he replied simply, stepping over Harry’s chest without ceremony.

“Why didn’t you cross the gate sooner?”

Tom held her gaze as he approached. “I wanted you to choose me. It’ll make the next phase exponentially easier for us both.”

“And if I didn't choose you?” She prompted, lifting her chin to maintain his towering stare.

He smirked, eyes gleaming anew. “I suppose we’ll never know.”

She huffed, prepared to argue the matter further but the tightening in her abdomen had other ideas. Hermione cringed, arms wrapping her middle as she doubled over, face buried against her knees.

“None of that now.” His voice filtered down from a great distance. Which was really a shame, because if he’d been kneeling any closer she would've happily slapped him until his sharp cheekbones cut her palm.

Hermione heard movement, felt the shift in the air, and then strong hands were gripping her arms and hauling her upright.

“There we go,” he murmured, indifferent to her sharp keen as her muscles contracted and organs burst. She clawed at his chest and then buried her face in it, clutching handfuls of dark fabric and clinging to him as she had the gate.

“Look at me, Hermione.”

Despite her aversion to commands the words themselves were a soothing rumble, the steady vibration of his voice sinking into her weary bones. Even so, she lacked the strength or desire to lift her face from his chest.

His fingers gripped her chin, gentle and insistent, tipping her tear-stained face up until their gazes met. His eyes were heavy-lidded, their glow no longer eerie or unsettling, neither were the fangs peeking out from under his lips. Hermione wondered whether the virus had reprogrammed her brain or if she was just too miserable to feel any measure of fear.

And then another cramp twisted her insides like a dishrag and rational thought evaded her entirely. Her nails dug into his chest, indenting skin and pressing muscle and for a wild, fleeting beat she wanted to pierce through his flesh and draw blood to the surface, inflicting even just a portion of the agony she was experiencing. The mere thought caused her pain to increase ten-fold, instant karma for such violent desires.

She tried jerking her head away but he gripped her chin tighter, thumb tracing her bottom lip as new tears spilled free.

“Do you want me to stop the pain?”

Hermione gasped, eyes darting up at the question. “ _Yes_ ,” she hissed without hesitation, tightening her grip on his shirt.

His gaze gleamed brighter, thumb tugging her lip as his fingertips skimmed along her jaw and cheekbone before settling at her throbbing temple. “Let me in,” he murmured, free arm wrapping her waist as she went heavy in his hold.

Hermione blinked dumbly, slow to process his meaning. And then it clicked. She swallowed thickly, weighing out the pros and cons of having a temperamental and morally-stunted vampire traipsing around in her brain. But as she started to compose the first bullet-point a knife plunged into her gut and the list burst into flame.

“How?” She whispered hoarsely, already lost to the mesmerizing pulse of his irises.

The arm at her waist tightened as his hand slid behind her neck and cradled the base of her skull, supporting its weight and allowing her to fall completely limp.

“Don’t fight it,” he whispered, wetting his lips as she moaned softly.

Hermione could feel the pressure mounting, pressing at her temples and behind her eyes. She tried to let go, to release whatever barrier held him at bay, but relaxing her mind was exponentially more difficult than loosening her body.

“It’s alright.” She heard his voice but didn’t see his lips move. “Just like that.” Her lids felt heavy, body lighter. _Good girl._

Hermione gasped at the cool rush that flowed through her limbs like water, pooling in her center and extinguishing the lapping flames, expelling the bone-deep ache. The sudden and absolute cessation of pain siphoned a fresh wave of tears beyond her control. Her fingers unwinded from his shirt, hands resting between their bodies as his face lowered, pupils swallowing the grey while he studied her at leisure.

She felt the gentle brush of fingertips in her mind, the presence of something intangible, shadows lurking behind thoughts and memories. Hermione knew she’d likely regret this decision in the very near future but right now she basked in the reprieve.

“Better?” He asked, voice gravel thick. Hermione was certain he already knew the answer but felt compelled to reply anyway.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Tom chuckled lowly, her body absorbing the sound, and then he kicked her legs out from under her.

She gasped, plummeting helplessly toward the cement until she felt an iron band catch behind her knees and another at her back, his arms making effortless work of her weight as he lifted her up and began walking down the hill. Hermione was too exhausted to chastise his manhandling tactics so she made a mental note to lecture him on the subject later, preferably when she wasn’t at death’s door. At present, she rested her hand atop his chest and her head against his shoulder. “Where are we going?”

His grip tightened as the incline steepened. “My cabin.”

Hermione blinked, opening her mouth to respond but her lids felt heavy and her thoughts felt muddled. All she could focus on was the sight directly before her eyes, the heavy swell of his Adam’s apple and the rhythmic throb of his artery.

“Sleep now,” he said, fingertips pressing her arm and thigh with every heavy stride, “we have a long drive ahead of us.”

Hermione wasn’t certain if the words were spoken aloud or in her mind, only that they were the last thing she heard before falling asleep in the arms of the enemy.


	11. Second Death

_“Of course I was under the spell, and the wonderful part is that, even at the time, I perfectly knew I was.”_  
~ Henry James, The Turn of the Screw  
.   .   .

Hermione’s awareness faded in and out of the blackness like scenes in a silent film. Glaring street lamps overlaying dark trees, towering bridges cutting across moonlit water, flashing headlights and echoing trains. Each frame stuttered through the reel, oversaturated and disjointed. And then a new movie began to play, a vivid mirage scripted from fantasy. A vast desert spread to the horizon, rippling dunes cast blue beneath an indigo sky.

_It’s not real…_

Of this Hermione was certain, though she was too far gone to ascertain how she knew. Everything felt like a dream, her body weightless as time and space bled off the page. Only two things tethered her to reality: the steady hum of an engine and the warm hand encasing her wrist. Calloused fingertips pressed her throbbing pulse before sliding down to her palm and tracing its creases. She became aware of her body in the same instant, the buzzing sensation in her hand spreading up her arm and shoulder, into her neck and filling her skull. She tried turning her head but found the task insurmountable.

**Relax.**

The voice was deep, familiar, and though a distant part of her clenched with apprehension the rest of her body followed the command with ease. She went limp in her seat, the leather upholstery groaning beneath her weight, reminding her of exactly where she was. As soon as the car entered her awareness so did her reflection in the window, head lolled and gaze fixed to the blurring landscape. A sharp, masculine profile was visible in the glass beside her. Tom was eased back in his seat, one hand on the wheel and the other on her.

**Pain?**

Hermione swallowed, throat bobbing with the motion. Her esophagus was dry as the desert beyond her window and her limbs were buried under its crushing weight, but the agonizing cramping had stopped and for that she was grateful.

_Just thirsty…_

His low hum filled her head, sounding more idle than contemplative.

**I know.**

Fingertips traced over the heel of her palm, tapping absently, following the beat of an unheard song.

**Sleep. We’ll be there soon.**

A sweltering beat.

**I’ll give you what you need.**

The buzzing in her head raced down her spine in an electric surge, warmth following its path. Her stomach tightened, anticipating something that evaded her mind. Hermione blinked slowly, eyes drifting across the dark landscape as her lids turned heavy. The sands of Egypt melted into the backdrop of upstate New York until gleaming bridges and crumbling ruins shared the same skyline.

Before closing her eyes and inviting the darkness Hermione shared one last thought aloud.

_Not blood…_

Tom’s rumbling laughter drifted through her mind like smoke, dimming the lights and chasing her into the void.

* * *

Harry entered the locker room on a swift inhale, a decision he instantly regretted when a pungent cloud of sweat and urine assaulted his airway. His gaze swept the room as the door settled at his back, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The tiles were cracked and stained, lockers bent and the bathroom out-of-order. Still the same old shit hole.

Perfect.

He smiled, lowering the gym bag from his shoulder as he cut a path across the room.

“Potter!” A familiar voice called from one of the benches in the corner. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight.”

Harry changed direction, dropping his bag beside the man pulling tape from his wrist. “Wood. Long time no see. How’s it been?”

“Ah, I can’t complain, the construction gig always picks up in the summer.”

Harry nodded, opening a locker with a tug, the door warped and jammed. “Good to hear.”

“Eh,” Oliver shrugged, “it’s nothing to write home about. Not compared to you.”

Harry gripped the back of his shirt and pulled it overhead, hair standing on end as it emerged from the fabric. “What do you mean?”

Wood laughed, pulling the last of the tape from his skin and balling it between his palms. “Saturday’s match! I heard you got a knockout in the first round.”

“That’s nothing to write home about either.” Harry threw his shirt inside the locker, watching it land in a heap at the bottom. “I could smell alcohol on the poor sod’s breath, the manager was an idiot for putting him in the ring.”

"Hey, a win's a win." Oliver tossed the tape ball into the waste can, sinking it with one shot and pumping his fist in the air.

Harry smirked. “You must’ve enjoyed your own win tonight, you’ve barely broken a sweat.”

“I didn’t fight.”

Harry blinked, pulling his bag closer and tugging the zipper. “No?”

“I come here to let off steam and make a few bucks, not to get my fucking skull caved in.”

“I don’t think any of us come for that,” Harry mused, reaching for his tape roll.

“You’d be surprised. So far six idiots are in traction for the chance at the big payoff.”

Harry pushed his bag to the floor and straddled the bench, facing the other man. “Payoff?”

“You haven’t heard?” Wood asked, eyes gleaming with the thrill of being in-the-know.

Harry shrugged, already indifferent to the news. “I haven’t been here in a while.” There was little that excited him these days and somehow he doubted Underground gossip was about to change that.

“There’s a new fighter, arrived a few days ago.” Oliver gripped either side of the bench and leaned forward, voice cast low as though they weren’t the room’s only occupants. “The owner’s offering a grand to anyone who can beat him.”

Harry blinked, pausing in his pursuit for the starting edge of the tape. “Bagman’s offering a grand?”

Wood nodded as he pushed to his feet, opening the locker beside them. Harry lowered the roll, reeling at the thought of the Cheap Bastard opening his wallet without a gun to his head.

“The guy's really that good?”

“Undefeated. I had to see for myself. Needless to say, I’m not going in the Pit tonight.”

Harry sat straighter, watching Oliver pull on a shirt. “What’s so good about him?”

“Everything.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Fucker’s built like a brick house,” Wood offered casually, folding down his collar. “One of the biggest I’ve seen come through these doors.”

“Big means slow.”

“Not this time.” Oliver shook his head. “He moves fast. His reflexes are…” He slammed the locker, the metallic bang echoing off the cracked tile. “It’s almost unnatural.”

Harry's grip tightened on the roll, bending the cardboard center. _Unnatural_ …

“He’s the only one being matched?”

“Of course. People are coming to LA just to see him. Bagman’s raking in more cash than he knows what to do with. A thousand bucks is a drop in the hat, I’m surprised he doesn’t double it just to really sweeten the pot. He’s running out of fighters to throw at the beast.”

“He’s going multiple rounds in one night?”

“Like I said,” Wood slung his bag over his shoulder, “Unnatural. More animal than man.”

Harry’s gaze drifted, unblinking in intensity. Oliver tilted his head.

“I hope you’re not thinking of entering the Pit tonight.”

Harry glanced up. “Don’t think I stand a chance?”

“You’re one of the few fighters I think could work in a decent hit. But it’ll take a lot more than a headshot to put him down.” Wood gave Harry a sweeping once-over. “Besides, you’ve got a good career going. An injury could ruin you. I don’t know why you come to the Underground, little less where you find the energy.”

Harry pulled a strip of tape and tore it with his teeth. “Boxing is structured, littered with rules and regulations. I enjoy a bit of chaos in my violence.”

“In that case, you’re in the right place. The Pit is pure insanity tonight.” Oliver grinned, stepping around the bench. “Best of luck, you crazy bastard.”

Harry laughed, winding the tape around his wrist with easy skill. “Thanks.” He listened to the man cross the room, glancing up at the last moment. “Hey, Ollie.”

Wood paused at the door, gazing back.

“This unbeatable warrior got a name?” Harry asked, curiosity reaching a dangerous peak.

“Oh yeah,” Oliver replied with a wry grin, “head down to the main floor and you’ll hear the crowd chanting it.” He offered a parting wink before opening the door and slipping into the smoke-filled alley.

.   .   .

Harry blinked, then squinted against the lightning sky. The sun had only partially breached the horizon but the glare was blinding, erupting white-hot pain at the base of his skull and down the notches of his spine. His muscles felt stiff, joints swollen, the mounting discomfort giving rise to memory as the events of last night came flooding back in a crashing wave.

And then a face appeared above him, creased with age and blocking out the orange sky.

“Are you alright, my child?”

Harry blinked again, fingers curling in the grass as he glanced around. The church stood just beside him, a cluster of early-risers gathered on its steps, faces stricken with varying looks of concern and scandal. The man above him moved closer. “Should I fetch an ambulance—”

“No.”

The man stiffened at the forceful tone. Harry sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face and shakily pushing to his feet, knees cracking with the effort.

“I mean, no thank you…” Harry studied the elderly man with more care, stones dropping to the pit of his stomach. “Father.”

A priest stood before him.

Harry swallowed thickly, feeling twice the fool. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… that is, I must have… fallen asleep.”

He swayed precariously, staggering, vertigo dissipating in the next breath. A few women on the stairs gasped, placing hands to their mouths and bestowing him with glares of judgment. Harry spared them his scorn, knowing he looked like a drunk fresh from an all-night bender. I _f only I could be so lucky_. He scratched the side of his head, hair sticking in every direction as he met the priest’s eye.

“I’m sorry for any disturbance I caused.”

Now, time to get the fuck gone before they summoned the police. The last thing he needed was another encounter with Officer Dumbass. Harry backed away on stiff legs, feeling as though he’d been beaten with a sledgehammer.

“I’ll get out of here.”

“Take it slow, my child,” the priest insisted, concern etching his features. “You look unwell.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, the spot still tender from Hermione’s knockout blow. “I’ll be fine, Father.” He offered a tired grin that fell a mile short of his eyes. “I get like this every month.”

The priest studied him speculatively before nodding. “Be safe, and make good choices.”

Harry couldn’t contain his grunt of laughter. “I’ll do my best.”

He trudged across the lawn and through the parted gate, sparing a passing glance at the bent rod iron bar. His fist tightened, knuckles bruised and swollen. His journey back to the Phantom was downhill, a small blessing, but the rapidly brightening sky offered little relief. He’d been unconscious for hours. Plenty of time for Riddle to skip town with her. She could be anywhere. The thought twisted his stomach until he had to stop and lean over, hands bracing his knees as he counted backward from ten, fighting through the pain. But the greatest ache was centered in his chest, an old wound reopened.

_Keep it together. Gin still needs you._

Thinking of his other missing friend did little to lighten the load on his shoulders. Still, the memory of Ginny’s contagious laughter imbued Harry with the fortitude to continue on. He reached into his vest and fished out the keys, heartbeat pounding behind his eyes with every step.

* * *

Ginny bit her lip, staring at her wavy reflection in the contents of the glass. The scent was overwhelming, setting her throat and stomach ablaze. She closed her eyes and shook her head, forcing the glass down and knocking lightly on the door. A faint shuffle sounded beyond. Ginny opened her eyes and shifted restlessly, palms sweating on either side of the crystal.

“It’s just me,” she assured.

A silent beat. And then the lock turned and the door parted, a familiar face peeking through the crack, nervous eyes inspecting the empty corridor before settling on Ginny.

“Hi,” the young woman muttered.

Ginny grinned. “Hi.” She held the glass aloft. “I come bearing breakfast. Err… dinner, I suppose. Still getting used to this day-is-night, night-is-day routine.”

The brunette stepped back and opened the door the rest of the way. “Me, too. Come in.”

Ginny entered, glancing around the shadowy interior of the bedroom. “Wow, it’s gloomy in here.”

Her companion shut the door, encasing them in near-total darkness. "That's the aesthetic I'm going for."

“In that case, I love what you’ve done with the place.”

The brunette laughed softly and paced to the desk, clicking on the lamp. Ginny lingered awkwardly, rocking back on her heels. “Oh, here,” she recalled, stepping forward and extending the blood-filled glass.

Her companion accepted the offering carefully, crimson lapping at the rim of the crystal. “Thank you, Ginevra.”

Ginny fought back a cringe. “Seriously, you gotta stop calling me that.”

The brunette smiled and took a delicate sip, red glistening above her top lip like a gruesome mustache. Ginny’s gaze lingered on the sight until it was licked clean.

“Where’s yours?”

She blinked, eyes flickering up. “Oh, I already drank mine.” Ginny tried not to squirm beneath the knowing stare. “Um, downstairs.”

“Ginny…”

She turned away, glancing around the room for any means of distraction. “Your artwork is so much better than mine, I’m lodging a complaint with property management.”

A soft sigh echoed behind her, followed by the tink of crystal being set atop the wood desk.

“You need to eat.”

Ginny took a steadying breath before turning. “I _do_ eat, trust me.”

“I've never seen—”

“If you would leave your room for more than ten minutes a day you’d see a lot more.”

Her companion crossed her arms, eyes drifting to the hand-woven rug at their feet. “I'm grateful for everything you've done for me.”

“You don't have to be—”

“But I am.” She glanced up, meeting Ginny’s gaze intently. “You kept me alive. I owe everything to you.”

Ginny rolled her eyes, leaning against the footboard of the sleigh bed.

“But I’m okay now,” the other woman continued, “you don't need to keep giving me your rations.”

Ginny stiffened. “I didn't—”

“You did. But I only realized it when I spoke with Marcus; you brought me nearly double what he and the others received.”

“When did you talk to Marcus?” She asked, gaze narrowing.

“Two days ago. I visited the garden for a few minutes and crossed paths with him in the hall.”

Ginny rubbed her eyes. “Of everyone in this house…”

“You don't like him?”

“Marcus is a dick.”

Her companion blinked.

“Sorry,” Ginny sighed, lids heavy with exhaustion. “He's…” She wracked her brain for a less crass description but quickly abandoned the effort. “I got nothing. He's a bag of dicks, plain and simple.”

A nervous giggle filled the room, the sound so refreshing it distracted Ginny from her gnawing hunger.

“He's nice to me,” came the innocent response.

Ginny crossed her arms. “Because he wants to nail you against a wall. Guys are always nice when they think there's even the faintest possibility of getting laid.”

“I would _never_ …” the brunette shivered, horror clear in her guileless eyes. “Least of all with Marcus.”

“Tell him that,” Ginny smirked, relishing the prospect, “we'll see how chatty and helpful he is afterward."

Her companion bit her lip and leaned against the desk, idly tracing the crystal rim of the glass with a fingertip. “At least he's better than Rabastan.”

“Rabastan’s all bark.”

“It’s a loud bark.”

“He only intimidates you because you let him,” Ginny said.

“I believe that’s a tautological argument.”

"I'm sorry, was that English? You know you have to use smaller words around me." She was skewered by another knowing look.

“Only because you prefer being underestimated. I’ve heard you quoting Shakespeare.”

Ginny smirked. “I’m certain I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The brunette shook her head and peered at her still-full glass, tracing the narrow stem and beveled base. Ginny watched the distracted motion and suspected the girl was the type to push food around her plate rather than eat it.

“You were gone last night.”

The soft whisper penetrated the fog clouding Ginny's mind. "I went on a top-secret mission," she stated, still focused upon the fragrant contents of the glass.

“What was it like?”

Ginny shrugged, gazing up. “Old school B&E with a little arson sprinkled on top, pretty run of the mill.”

Her companion abandoned the glass and peered forward. “I mean, what was the outside world like?”

Ginny tilted her head, scratching her arm.

“Did it seem… different?” The brunette clarified.

“Oh. Yeah!” Ginny brightened, eyes glinting. “It was better.”

“Better how?”

“Just… better. It's hard to explain. But you can find out for yourself, Bella said—”

“No.” Her companion shook her head and glanced away. “I don't want to go out,” she murmured. “Not yet.”

Ginny rose from the footboard. “We can start small, take a walk around the property—”

“I’m actually really tired. I think I’ll just drink this and go to bed.”

Ginny deflated. “Oh… okay, sure.” She glanced around awkwardly before starting for the door. “I’ll see you tonight then.”

The young woman nodded, mustering a faint smile. “Goodnight, Ginny. Or… good morning.”

Ginny flashed a parting grin over her shoulder as she opened the door. “Good morning, Astoria.”

And then she slipped into the hallway, cheery countenance dropping the moment the barrier closed between them and her stomach let loose a rumbling growl, an ominous warning she had no hope of escaping.

* * *

Theo leaned back with a groan, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he set the mop inside the bucket. He could see his reflection in the gleaming floor, eyes sunken and complexion pale. The chore was a measly distraction, doing little to negate his desire to run. But the futility of such a response had kept him rooted to the lab. Leaving Anastasia simply wasn’t an option.

She was a plague that had to be contained. And now it seemed she presented a far greater threat than just a walking contagion. She was also a predator. Theo was responsible for her creation and every action she took thereafter. He had a moral obligation to mitigate the danger and fix his mistake. So he created a step-by-step to-do list, focusing solely upon the task at hand to keep his mind focused and his terror at bay.

The first item had been securing his work, ensuring the samples weren’t contaminated and the equipment wasn't damaged, each piece vital to finding a cure. The second task had been fixing the door, or rather, barricading it shut until he could obtain the proper tools for repair. The third duty was ridding the floor of the busted cage and tar-like substance congealed across its surface. With the first three items complete there was only one task remaining. The fourth and most dreaded.

Examining the patient.

Under normal circumstances, he would have started there. But the circumstances were anything but normal. Between her blood-soaked attire and glowing eyes, Theo had barely been able to gaze upon her. Fortunately, Anastasia had seemed equally eager to rid herself of the rust-colored stain. What’s more, she seemed remorseful regarding her actions, leaving Theo to anxiously ponder what had occurred even as he felt immense relief to learn she harbored a conscious. Self-control was obviously another matter. He wouldn’t be able to let her out of his sight again…

Which meant facing her now.

He rested the mop handle against the wall and moved the bucket aside, forcing his gaze up on a deep sigh. Anastasia remained perched on the edge of his cot where he’d left her, a bloodied rag wrung between her hands and head slanted down, hair draping either side of her face. He examined her shadowed figure for several moments more, muscles tight with anticipation.

_Let’s get this over with._

“Anastasia.”

Her attention snapped up, eyes catching the light, glinting like metal. A predator’s gaze.

“Yes, Theo?”

The gentle question was an instant balm, balancing the terror inspired by her haunting stare. He cleared his throat, breaking his rigid repose. "I'd like to examine you now." A beat. "If that's alright with you." After all, she was no longer a cadaver and he wasn't the type to force someone's hand. Though even if he were, attempting to do so with her seemed supremely idiotic.

Anastasia stood swiftly, movements graceful and fluid as she started a path forward. Light washed over her body, dispelling the unnatural glow of her eyes and bringing her hair and skin into focus. Theo dragged a hand over his face, tearing his gaze away and leading a path to the stool.

“Sit here.”

He heard her follow the instruction as he grabbed his medical case, taking a deep breath and assuming a mask of professionalism, turning on his heel and studying her with a clinical eye. Her skin was pink from scrubbing, sleeves and pant legs rolled up on her borrowed clothing. She’d placed her soiled garments in a pile at Theo’s request. He’d incinerate them under the cover of night.

“Will it hurt?” She asked suddenly.

Theo blinked, meeting her eerie stare. Confusion and fear fell by the wayside as he studied her innocent countenance, so open and trusting— he shook his head, forcing himself to focus. “I’m sorry?”

“For what?”

He rubbed his eyes. Christ, this was turning into a bad Arbuckle sketch. “Will _what_ hurt?”

“The things you’re going to do to me.”

Theo’s cheeks flushed red, eyes flaring wide. “I— I’m not—” His mind stuttered as badly as his tongue. “I’m only going to…”

She tilted her head, waiting patiently. He swallowed heavily, cursing himself.

“No, it won’t hurt.”

She nodded and stared at her hands, oblivious to the awkwardness exuding from his every pore. Theo set his case on the table beside her and gathered his bearings.

“I need to ask you some questions, Anastasia.” He unfastened the buckles and opened the flap. “It’s very important you tell me the truth. Do you understand what truth means?”

He reached inside, heart skipping as his fingers grazed the edge of the crucifix.

“I think so,” she muttered softly.

He grabbed his stethoscope and turned, eager to get the task underway and finished. But the sight of her hunched figure gave him pause. He opened and closed his mouth before affecting a gentler tone. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

She peered up, eyes glistening. “I don’t want you to be angry.”

“Angry?” He repeated, reeling at the ludicrous thought. After the chaos and violence of last night, her biggest concern was his reaction? They'd only known each other for a day—

_She doesn’t know that, idiot._

Theo stood straighter, clutching the stethoscope tightly. “I won’t be angry as long as you’re honest with me.”

She nodded shortly, swiping the backs of her hands across her eyes and smearing wetness across her temples.

“Walk me through your night, everything that occurred,” he instructed, inserting the earpieces as she expelled a torrent of words.

“I ate an apple and an orange and a banana and a bread but nothing made it better—”

“Start with just after I left,” Theo interrupted, trying to sort through the onslaught of information.

"Oh." She pressed a hand to her middle, gaze lowering. "Well, I…" He waited out her silence, noticing the flush staining her cheeks as she tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. "I got sick on the floor."

He blinked, turning to the wet spot still drying beneath the standing lights, remembering the way the substance clung to his gloves as he scooped it into a jar.

“ _That_ came out of you?”

She nodded, shoulders bunching tight. “Afterwards, I was so hungry I couldn’t think straight—” She stopped abruptly, eyes flickering up. “Think… straight. _Think_ straight.”

Theo raised a brow. She tilted her head in either direction as though trying to shake the thought loose.

“Are thoughts supposed to be straight?” Her lashes fluttered. “What are thoughts?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You got hungry and decided to leave?”

“Decided?”

Crap. “A decision means you made a choice.” _Now to explain choice—_

“Then it wasn’t a decision,” she replied succinctly, bringing his thoughts to a grinding halt with her next words. “I had to leave.”

Theo regarded her carefully. “And the mice?”

“They had to leave, too.”

His pulse quickened. “Why is that?”

“They didn’t want to be here, why should they have stayed?” she asked simply, tucking her hands between her thighs and the stool.

Theo took a deep breath, storing the exchange for later dissection. “I’m going to listen to your heart.”

She fell perfectly still as he drew closer, stopping before her knees, hesitating with the metal diaphragm halfway to her chest. “It might be cold,” he whispered, then cleared his throat, glancing away.

Her only response was a quiet gasp when he pressed the metal against the triangle of warm flesh between the gap in her shirt. She squirmed in place and glanced down, seemingly fascinated by the instrument. Theo's expression remained fixed as he listened to the thrum of her heart, steady and strong. But his thoughts were soon scattered as she glanced up without warning, the intensity of her amber gaze holding him captive.

“Take a deep breath,” he uttered, hardly aware of his words. She inhaled swiftly, maintaining his gaze. He exhaled on the same count, instinctually mimicking her movements while a damning flush spread across his neck. Her eyes released him from the spell as they drifted down, inspecting the map of his face at leisure before lingering on his mouth. Theo became startling aware they’d both leaned forward at some point.

He pulled back abruptly, nearly dropping the stethoscope as he removed it from his ears and draped it behind his neck. He turned away, not trusting his rational mind to stare upon her for more than a few moments at a time. Theo was used to being alone, any new element was bound to draw his attention. Not to mention the myriad of scientific conundrums she introduced, it was only natural to feel a perverse fascination. That’s all it was, professional curiosity.

Certainly.

“It seems a great deal has changed in my absence,” he muttered by means of distraction, returning the stethoscope to its compartment.

The stool creaked. “I’m sorry.”

Theo carded a hand through his hair, jaw tense. “You were hungry and confused. I shouldn’t have left.” He reached back inside the case. “I’m going to take your blood pressure now.”

 _Since you seem to have blood_ … He was terrified to ponder how she came to acquire enough of the vital substance to keep her heart beating. But he didn’t want to rush her tale, needing to hear every last detail to mitigate the fallout.

“What happened to the door?” He prompted.

She bit her lip, watching as he wrapped the pneumatic cuff around her bicep. “It broke.”

“ _How_ did it break?”

“I don’t know.”

He tilted his head, pressing the hand pump and tightening the band. “What did you use to pry the gate open?”

She merely blinked, more curious about the cuff than his question.

“Did you find a pole?” He asked, wracking his mind for possibilities. He didn’t own a crowbar and none of his lab equipment was capable of bending steel—

“I didn’t use anything.”

Theo stiffened, realization seizing him in a choking vice as the valve released and the air hissed free. His gaze drifted to her lap, her fingers calmly interlaced. She’d scrubbed them clean but traces of dried blood clinged beneath her nails.

“You pulled it with your hands.”

She tilted her head, seemingly oblivious to the weight of his statement as she watched the band slip from her arm. Theo paced back slowly, watching her warily until the metal table cut short his retreat.

“Anastasia…” He wet his lips tentatively. “Why were you covered in blood?”

Her fingers tightened, skin turning white against the strain. He pushed forward. “What did you eat after the apples and bread?”

She pulled her hands apart and gripped either side of the stool, offering no response.

“You said a man grabbed you… did he hurt you?”

The prospect was more disheartening than whatever crime she committed. Her mind was stripped bare, instinctual and easily manipulated. It was his job to protect the outside world from her, as well as shield her from the horrors of the outside world.

“I hurt him,” she whispered at last.

Theo inhaled slowly. “Hurt him _how_?”

Her shoulders drew in. He took a step closer.

“I need to know what happened, Anastasia, I need to know if he’s—” Theo stopped abruptly. She didn’t know about the virus, the risk of infection she posed, and discussing it meant revealing her true identity. He didn’t enjoy perpetuating the lie but it seemed to be the only thing keeping her here. She’d already broken free once, returning solely on the belief they were cousins. Family was obviously very important to her, if Theo revealed they were nothing but strangers what was to stop her from seeking out her true relations?

So he changed tactics and took another step, earning her undivided attention. “I need to know if he’s still hurt.”

The amber glinted in her irises as she licked her lips, the combination unleashing a bevy of emotions within him, fear top among them.

“He isn’t,” she replied simply. The lightness of her tone did nothing to undermine the gravity of her stare, its force pulling him closer yet.

Theo asked the next question in a rush, eager to expel the thought from his mind. “Was he still in one piece when you left?”

An endless beat.

“No.”

He swallowed, heels locking in place with only inches to spare between them.

“Did anyone else see what occurred?”

She gave a brief shake of her head before tipping it back to maintain his gaze.

“Do you remember where you were?”

Anastasia glanced away quickly, hair falling in a golden sheet and hiding her face from view.

“I need you to take me there,” he insisted.

“I don’t want to go back.”

“I have to see the body.”

She shook her head again, leaning away as though his words accosted her.

“This is very important, Anastasia, I must examine—”

She pressed her hands over her ears, eyes frantic as she glanced up. “Please don’t make me go back!”

Theo sighed, searching his mental stores for patience.

“Please, Theo! Please please please please—”

“Alright,” he relented, reaching forward without thought and grasping her wrists, pulling her hands away as tears escaped her lashes. Her skin was flush, breath catching. “I won’t make you go back,” he said.

Her arms went limp in his hold. “Thank you.”

His chest tightened, hands releasing her before he took a wide step back to gather his faculties. Visiting the crime scene was likely a pointless venture anyhow. The police were undoubtedly involved by now. And even if they weren't, Theo stood no chance of transporting the body to his lab undetected. That was Finnegan's specialty, and Theo had no intention of drawing the bumbling fool into this mess. No, he would check with the morgues himself.

The mice were his true concern, scouring the streets in a blood-thirsty craze, spreading the virus with every bite. Such an epidemic would rival the Black Plague. The city would fall within a month. He stood no chance of finding them or containing the infection, there was only one solution to this ever-evolving catastrophe.

Finding the cure.

An endeavor to be undertaken alone. The esteemed medical community would never take him seriously, turning their backs on the threat until half the population had succumbed and resources were depleted. The hope of mankind rested squarely upon his shoulders. Theo drew a hand over his face, overwhelmed by the responsibility, unaware Anastasia had been watching his silent musings until gentle fingertips pressed against his cheek and his train of thought struck a brick wall.

He turned swiftly, startled to find her standing just before him. His lips parted but only silence emitted as she began to trace his face like a sketchpad. Fingertips skimmed his jaw, over his chin, around his mouth and along the bridge of his nose, over his brow and across his temple, her eyes watching the path of her hand and Theo watching her face, breath trapped in his lungs. Her fingers paused at his dark hairline and then carded through the locks, nails grazing his scalp and causing an electrical current to race down his spine.

“It’s going to be okay, Theo.” She met his eye with a gentle smile. He inhaled swiftly. “I won’t eat anyone else.”

His vision swam as reality crashed overhead, muscles seizing with the impact. He staggered back, her hand lingering in the air as though reaching for him.

“I need to run some tests,” he stated firmly, turning away. “You should get some rest.”

Anastasia dropped her arm, watching his hurried departure. “Where do I rest?”

He paused. Shit. “You can use my cot,” he replied over his shoulder.

“Is it big enough for us both?”

His arteries throbbed in every limb. Theo rubbed the back of his neck and continued for the table. “I’ll pick up a second cot. In the meantime, it’s yours alone.”

He heard her step closer.

“Theo—”

“Goodnight, Anastasia,” he said with finality, offering his back and sitting behind the microscope.

Her sigh of resignation skewered him like an arrow through the chest but he pointedly ignored the nascent pain, grabbing a pen and sliding his notebook closer.

“Goodnight, cousin,” she uttered softly.

Theo continued to stare at the empty page long after she climbed atop his creaking cot.

* * *

Harry pulled alongside the curb, ivy-strewn gates appearing more menacing than ever before. He tightened his grip on the wheel, staring blankly at the street sign ahead while his thoughts careened deeper into the abyss. Hermione was gone. He had no means of tracking her, contacting her, no idea if he’d ever see her again. And Ginny… His chest ached at the mere thought of her name. Missing. Taken. And they had yet to find any solid leads.

He’d let them both down.

_Don’t give up. You can’t give up._

He released the wheel and turned off the engine, scrubbing both hands down his face. First things first, he needed to return Malfoy’s car and check on Richard. Then he'd visit Ron and figure out a game plan.

As he climbed out of the Phantom his gaze drifted across the street. Slughorn’s home stood quiet and unassuming, every curtain drawn. Harry slammed the gleaming car door and reached across his chest, rubbing the back of his shoulder as he passed through the towering gates. The agony had finally faded from his muscles but now fatigue reared its ugly head. _So tired of this bullshit._

He trudged up the creaking steps, careful to avoid the rotten beams on the porch. The front door didn't open by itself, the poltergeist undoubtedly taking pity on Harry's haggard state. He gripped the handle and pushed the door wide, stepping forward on an exhausted groan—

“It’s about fucking time!” Malfoy exploded, charging him in a fury. “I was moments away from calling the police!”

Crookshanks leaped the bottom step of the master staircase and trotted forward, circling Harry’s feet and glancing at the empty porch as though searching for Hermione. Harry pulled the barrier shut, avoiding the feline’s accusing glare. “They would’ve sent Officer Collins. You’d be better off with a circus clown.”

“How fortunate one just walked through the door. Where the hell have you been?”

“Passed out in a churchyard,” Harry replied tiredly, tossing the keys.

The blonde caught them with quick reflexes and a tight scowl. “Passed out? You went to _sleep_? I thought you had to find Granger immediately or the earth would sling out of orbit!”

“I wasn’t asleep.” Harry stepped around the bewildered barrier. “She knocked me unconscious.”

Malfoy blinked, expression settling as he processed the information. “Remind me to give her a raise.”

Harry rolled his eyes, pausing before the hallway entrance. “Where’s Richard?”

“Upstairs.”

“In bed?”

“That’s one possibility.”

“And what are the others?” Harry sighed, indifferent to the withering glare.

“Oh, I don't know… fermenting his own liquor, walking through walls, summoning the dead, creating a lifesize mural out of potato skins. His interests are quite varied.”

Harry rubbed his forehead, catching half the garbled rant and absorbing none of it. “Sounds good.” He started down the hall, irritated when the traitor cat elected to perch beside Malfoy.

“Then you haven't been listening. You have a very serious problem, Potter.”

“I agree. And it’s standing in my entry hall being a sarcastic prick.”

“I found it.”

Harry came to a reluctant stop, glancing at the cracked ceiling with a groan. "Found what?"

“I think you know,” Malfoy supplied evasively. But the intensity of his voice gave Harry pause, dread creeping up his spine like spider legs.

He slowly turned, seeing the challenge laid forth in the silver gaze. The silence festered. The cat glanced between them. Harry swallowed thickly. _Fuck_. “Malfoy, listen— it wasn’t her fault.”

“What?” The blonde snapped, ire giving way to annoyance.

“Hermione had nothing to do with the theft, I was the one who found it and brought it to her. She wanted to report it stolen but I asked her to keep it until I could—”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Harry blinked, glancing at the cat for assistance. The feline flicked its bushy tail and yawned. "... what the fuck are you talking about?"

Malfoy arched a brow. “Your little secret under the conservatory.”

“Oh.” Harry deflated with relief, then blinked. “Wait, _what_?”

Malfoy rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Tell me, what’s it like being the world’s largest single-celled organism?”

“Why were you in the conservatory?” Harry asked, crossing back to the entry hall. “ _How_ were you in the conservatory? I locked the doors.”

“Well, that was your first mistake. The house is in dire need of a hardware update. Oh, and an exorcism.”

Harry stopped just before the blonde, hands clenched at either side. “Show me.”

“You need a priest.”

“Show me what’s under the _conservatory_ , jackass.”

“Fuck that.” Malfoy crossed his arms. “You couldn’t pay me to go back down.”

“I was planning on dragging you there for free.”

“So that’s the thanks I—” his expression pinched, having an epiphany or shitting his pants. “Wait… stolen… Are you talking about the missing _jar_?”

Awesome. “I don’t know anything about a jar. Now show me what you found.”

“I wasn’t joking around, fuckwit, I’m not going down there again.”

Harry wasn’t certain what triggered him, the challenge in the man's posture or some invisible shift in the air, but in the next instant his senses went on high-alert, vision cutting sharp and nostrils flaring wide. He inhaled swiftly and stepped forward, bumping against the opposing force.

Malfoy lowered his arms and staggered back, face betraying surprise before anger masked his pale features, lips parting to deliver some scathing remark. But the words caught in his throat when Harry continued to advance, stalking closer and driving him against the curving banister. He gripped the spindles at his back, knuckles turning white as Harry stopped just before him, gazes level and unblinking. Crookshanks remained rooted in his original spot, more concerned with cleaning his paw. Malfoy's throat bobbed as he prepared to speak but once again Harry cut him off, leaning forward and gripped the banister on either side of his body. Malfoy bowed back, trapped on every side.

Harry’s hands curled over the rail, wood groaning as his pupils expanded. “ _Please_ ,” he ground out, the sound barely human.

Malfoy released a shallow breath, his own pupils blown wide as sweat collected on his forehead. “Granger must have knocked your only remaining screw loose.”

“I’m honored you thought I had any left to begin with." Harry pushed away from the banister and extended his arm towards the hall. "Lead the way, Sherlock."

Malfoy peeled away from the stairs, straightening his jacket and collecting his bearings. “That would make you my trusty basset hound. What a fitting analogy.”

He started forward, movements stiff and rigid as Harry followed a few feet behind. The cat traipsed ahead of them both, clearly not trusting either idiot to find the way. By the time they rounded the corner Harry had returned to his normal state, senses dulled and darkness smothered. He gazed ahead, shoulders pulling wide as the conservatory doors came into view.

Crookshanks disappeared inside the desolate garden, leaving Malfoy to act as guide. The blonde led him past dead trees, withered plants and decayed vines until their destination finally became obvious.

Harry’s chest swelled, step faltering as the memory seized him by the throat.

“Harry, what are you doing?”

“Nothing—”

“I told you to stay away from there!”

“Mom said it’s good luck to throw coins inside—”

“There’s nothing good luck about that fountain. Don’t _ever_ touch it, do you understand?”

Harry dropped his head, narrow shoulders drawing in. “I’m sorry, Sirius.”

His godfather sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face and dropping to one knee. “It’s alright.” He squeezed Harry’s arm, prompting his emerald gaze to lift. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Come on, let’s head to the park.”

Harry grinned brightly, childhood resilience an instant remedy. “Can we go back to the horse track instead?”

Sirius smirked. “Under one condition—”

“Don’t tell mom!”

His godfather’s laughter echoed off the domed ceiling as he rose to his full height, staring down with fondness. “Good lad, grab your jacket and we’ll go.”

Nine-year-old Harry ran for the hall, eager to spend the day exploring the City with his third favorite adult in the whole world. But some invisible force caused him to pause in the doorway, glancing back in time to catch Sirius’s haunted expression as he stared at the ornate fountain. Harry had made a silent vow to never go near the stone decoration again, for anything that caused his godfather such distress was surely evil incarnate.

Harry blinked back to the present nightmare, startled by the flash of orange cutting across his path. Crookshanks appeared a few paces ahead, bottlebrush tail swishing to and fro as he trotted at Malfoy’s heels. Harry followed the pair around the final corner, braced for the inevitable as the memory clung to the back on his tongue like acid. Still, nothing could prepare him for the sight at the end of the cobbled path.

He slowed his step, struggling to understand exactly what stood before them. Malfoy gave the entrance of the staircase wide berth, stopping several feet away. Harry came to a halt beside him, having no desire to get any closer to the ominous darkness. The shadows at the bottom of the opening seemed to pulsate, alive and sentient.

“How did you find this?”

“I didn’t.”

Harry glanced sideways. “Richard?”

“And his faithful sidekick,” Malfoy replied, tipping his chin towards the cat currently flopped on his side.

Harry chanced a half-step closer and leaned in. A cold draft swept past, carrying a low-spoken whisper on its current. The words were unintelligible but somehow familiar. Harry pulled away, pulse quickening.

“You went down there?”

“What choice did I have? You saddled me with babysitting duty, was I supposed to just leave the Professor to his own devices?”

Harry blinked. “ _Richard_ went down?”

“Are we even having the same conversation? Christ, Granger must really pack a punch. What year do you think it is?”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Harry muttered, annoyance rapidly dispelling dread.

Malfoy groaned, shaking his head with resignation. “You’re going down first.”

 _Fucker_. “Fine.”

Harry turned back to the staircase and took a steadying breath, holding it deep and starting forward. The darkness devoured him whole. He braced the stone walls for balance, the temperature rapidly dropping as though entering a cave. But the cool air was a welcome reprieve against his heated skin. He blinked through the shadows, stumbling on the bottom step and emerging between a dirt floor and low ceiling.

He ducked down, pushing cobwebs aside as Malfoy descended behind him. The cat didn’t follow. Harry tensed, the feline’s absence putting him more on edge. He ran his fingertips along the walls, rough and filthy. “What the hell is this place?”

“You really had no idea it was down here?” Malfoy asked, reaching the bottom.

“I was never allowed in the conservatory.”

“Lucky you. Make a right up ahead.”

Harry squared his shoulders and continued on, the chaos of his night and morning a distant dream in the wake of this new and chilling development. He entered an open room held aloft by roughly carved support beams. Pale twilight filtered through openings along the top of the walls, revealing the utter emptiness of the space. No furniture, no boxes or decor… Harry’s jaw tensed with mounting unease. If it wasn’t a storage cellar what the hell could it be?

Half-way through his inspection he came across a metal door in the wall. Malfoy was already staring at the obstruction from the opposite end of the room. The longer Harry looked upon it the more unreal it seemed. The hair on his arms and nape stood on end as tendrils of static lifted from the door and lapped at his flesh.

“What’s in there?”

Malfoy leaned his shoulder against the low wall. “Oh, I’m not ruining the surprise.” Harry flashed him a scowl but the blonde remained unmoved. “Mostly because I lack the requisite poetry to adequately convey—”

“Stop talking,” Harry said, feeling the heat of Malfoy’s glare long after he’d turned away.

He paced forward, heart pounding in every limb, arm twitching as he reached out. He clutched the handle and pulled the door wide, hoping a pile of balloon animals would tumble free and reveal the prank at last. But only darkness met his gaze. He shifted back, allowing the red sunrise to bleed inside. Dust hung heavy in the air, clustering like gnats, and then light glinted off metal.

Harry released the door, frozen in place as the sun rose higher, dispelling the darkness. Shapes took form, silhouettes given detail. “Oh my god,” he whispered, unable to blink or look away. Unable to run.

“As I said before, Potter.” Malfoy crossed the dirt floor and arrived at Harry’s side, silver gaze fixed on the same horrific sight. “You have a _very_ serious problem.”

* * *

Hermione awoke in a gleaming palace.

She was aware of her surroundings the moment she opened her eyes, though she wasn’t sure _how_ she knew, only that the indigo netting draping her bed was dyed in a shade denoting royalty, and royalty lived in palaces, didn’t they?

She blinked twice before sitting up, fabric and stuffing shifting beneath her weight. Her clothing was the same she wore at the Church, obscenely out-of-place against the vibrant bedding. The reed-woven frame shook as she swung her legs overside, bare feet planting atop a red stone floor. A massive vase of palm fronds was situated at her bedside, along with an aged trunk serving as a nightstand, clay pottery stacked atop. But the bulk of Hermione’s focus was awarded to the golden walls of her enclosure, covered from floor to ceiling in hieroglyphs.

She pushed upright in a daze, movements stilted and heavy like wading through water. Her vision faded in and out every time she attempted to read the glinting symbols, the dancing torchlight proving too great a distraction. And then a pleasant breeze swept past, lifting the ends of her hair and swaying the fronds in their holder.

She followed the warm gust to a set of parted golden doors, the opening covered by billowing silk. Her pulse skipped as the view beyond revealed itself in narrow slivers. She paced forward, lured by the siren call of the moonlit desert, parting the drapes and emerging atop a wide balcony overseeing an ancient paradise.

Torches lit the city beneath while stars framed the pyramids in the distance. She gripped the limestone barricade, overwhelmed at the splendor, breathless with awe. People milled about a hundred feet below, pulling carts and closing shutters. But her trance was broken when a black scorpion crawled over the top of the barricade, scurrying down the wall and onto the balcony.

Hermione staggered back, muscles locked as the creature darted in her direction. She shrieked and leaped aside, breathing a sigh of relief when it continued past, seemingly indifferent to her commotion. She tracked its path as it crawled towards the bedroom— and caught sight of a silhouette in the doorway. A woman stood behind the swaying silk, face hidden. But Hermione knew _exactly_ who stood before her, the supernatural aura unmistakable.

The scorpion disappeared behind the sheer fabric before hands parted the curtains down the center, moonlight reflecting off golden chains and glistening skin as the star of Hermione’s recent nightmares came into view, eyes gleaming with unnatural brightness. Hermione staggered anew, her fear of the scorpion a pale comparison to the terror inspired by the penetrating gaze. It wasn’t until she collided with the stone barrier she realized the woman wasn’t staring at her. She was focused on something beyond Hermione’s shoulder.

Hermione gripped the wall and risked a backward glance, spotting the encroaching threat at once. The sun was rising, its ascent marked by a rapidly lightning sky. The stars faded one by one as the top of the burning orb breached the dark horizon, orange spilling across the sand like paint. Hermione gasped, body vibrating with dread though she had no idea why. She faced forward, seeking help from the woman who evoked terror in her heart.

But the doorway stood empty.

Hermione was too panicked to process the sudden disappearance, overcome with an instinctual fear of the light. She darted inside the bedroom, or attempted to, but the curtains blocked her path, capturing her limbs in their silk folds. She screamed and thrashed, unable to break the iron trap as it wrapped her in a suffocating embrace, holding her immobile as the sun continued to rise. She watched day overtake the desert, the pyramids, the statues and buildings, crawling ever closer, death ever imminent—

Hermione screamed as it fell upon the side of the golden palace like a spotlight, searing her retinas even after she closed her eyes. She twisted and pulled but the curtains offered no reprieve, trapping her in a silk cocoon. And then the sunlight washed over her in a fiery wave, encasing her fully, singing her flesh and turning her bones to ash—

Hermione awoke with a gasp, decidedly _not_ within a glittering palace, though she did find herself atop another bed, sheets twisted around her legs like snakes. She kicked them away with a huff, inspecting her newest surroundings. A bedroom, rustic and modern. The walls were exposed wood, the knots along each beam indicating massive trunks, likely red oak. The furniture was of a similar design, glossy with lacquer, decorations scarce and neutral like a hotel.

But further evaluation was put on hold by the sweltering inferno bearing down from all sides. The room was scorching, a torturous oven. Every breath felt like inhaling steam. Her head throbbed, sick with dehydration.

_Fresh air… need to get outside._

It was the last rational thought she could muster before scrambling off of the four-poster bed and leaning against the side table, waiting for the vertigo to pass.

Hermione lurched to the curtains next, pulling the heavy fabric aside and reaching for the window— that wasn't there. Rather, a sheet of metal covered the opening, wedged to fit the frame perfectly. She ran her fingers along the edges, finding no grooves to pull the obstruction free. The heat in the room intensified, pumping steadily through a hidden heater.

_I’m going to die._

She pressed her forehead to the metal, luxuriating in its cool surface and gathering her remaining strength before pushing off and trudging for the door. She untucked her blouse as she went, falling against the barrier with a grunt, grateful when the knob gave way without protest. The hinges were silent as she pulled the door wide and strode through.

The living room beyond was lavish and sweltering. Hermione stumbled over the rug, dizzy with heat and exhaustion as she clung to the back of the leather sofa. Through sheer willpower alone she made it to the wall, gaze fastened to a door on the other side of the room, praying it was the way out. The hallway behind her stood dark and empty, no sign of the man that brought her here.

_Of course not. He’s left me here to boil alive._

Hermione gripped the side of the bookcase, vision too blurred to discern the titles along the spines. She rested her weight against the side, catching her breath before staggering to another set of curtains. She held little hope of finding glass on the other side but breathed a sigh of disappointment all the same, another sheet of metal blocking the outside world.

_Air… just need air…_

Sweat itched across her scalp, pooling on her nape and dripping down the curve of her spine. Her palms were slick by the time she reached the door, fumbling with the brass handle. It refused to budge.

“No,” she whimpered, listing against the frame with tears in her eyes. The heat was unbearable, a waking nightmare—

“Going somewhere?”

Hermione gasped and spun, pressing flat to the door. Tom stood just before her, having crossed the room in utter silence. His jacket was removed, the top two buttons of his shirt undone and sleeves rolled to the elbow, shadows outlining the muscles of his forearms as he tucked his hands into his pockets. She ignored the flutter of relief she felt at his arrival, preoccupied with staying upright and conscious.

“I can’t breathe,” she muttered, clinging to the doorframe. “I need air.”

“The cabin is well ventilated.”

Hermione swallowed thickly, throat sticking like flypaper. "It's too hot."

"It's fifty degrees Fahrenheit," he replied evenly, indifferent to her desperation.

Her knees trembled, body slumping lower. “That’s impossible.”

Tom stepped forward, closing the distance as her legs gave out. “You have a fever,” he stated, arms sweeping beneath her limbs before she hit the ground.

Hermione went limp in his hold, distantly registering the coolness of his touch. “I need water.”

“Your body will reject it, then you’ll be sick as well as overheated.”

Her forehead dropped to his shoulder as he lifted her up and started for the bedroom. “Great.” It was then she felt the rhythmic throb of his chest beneath her hand. “You have a heartbeat.”

“Don’t tell my enemies.”

She studied his profile. “So all your parts function normally?”

He raised a dark brow, meeting her eye with amusement. Hermione blinked, registering her words and flushing even hotter. “I mean… your _heart_ functions normally?” She hastily clarified, stiff with mortification.

The corner of his mouth lifted as they passed the sofa. “Let's just say it will make fine food for Ammit when I enter the Hall of Judgement.”

Her heart skipped, lips curving with surprised delight. “You know your mythology.”

“I know my demons.”

Hermione considered him anew as they entered the bedroom. “It's called the Hall of Two Truths, though it's a common misconception. “

Tom blinked before awarding her with his own assessing stare. “It’s been a long time since someone’s corrected me.”

“That's unfortunate,” she replied, head dropping back to his shoulder, “how else will you learn?”

He smirked, adjusting his grip before laying her on the bed. Hermione pushed the hair from her sweat-slicked forehead, seeing two Toms towering above her until blinking away the double-vision.

“How much longer?” She asked, hoping he wouldn’t ask her to elaborate.

He didn’t. “A normal transition can take upwards of two weeks.”

She exhaled sharply. Two weeks? There’s no way she’d last that long…

“But you’re cycling through the process at rapid speed,” he supplied, words offering little relief as he continued. “That also means today is going to be rough. The fever will only get worse.”

Hermione pressed her hands against her throbbing temples. “Can you go inside my head again?”

“I can’t maintain long-term hold without depleting all my energy. I need to stay alert.”

“You had control of Slughorn into the next day,” she said, certain her skin would start blistering to alleviate the steam trapped beneath.

“He offered little resistance. Some minds crave subjugation, yours isn’t one of them.” Tom leaned down further, hands pressing the mattress beside her hips. “The only way out is through.”

She swallowed thickly, the deep cadence of his voice unleashing a different kind of heat within her.

And then he began unzipping the side of her skirt.

Hermione gasped, twisting from his grasp. “What are you doing?”

“Taking off your clothes.”

“I can see that.” She slapped away his hand. “Why?”

His jaw set with annoyance. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

“I beg to differ,” she snapped.

He arched a dark brow. “I assure you, my intentions are wholly innocent.”

She bestowed him with her most sardonic look. Tom released a sound of boredom, bracing the mattress at her sides until the wall of his chest filled her vision.

“Fair enough. I’m astounded I was able to utter the words with a straight face. Nevertheless, I have no plans to molest you.”

“I'm so relieved.”

He pushed away from the bed, the sudden surrender taking her off guard. She watched him pace to the dresser at the wall, opening the second drawer and reaching inside.

“I had my associate purchase additional clothing. You’ll be more comfortable in—” He pulled the garments free, holding them aloft and inspecting them for what was obviously the first time. “Bloody hell.”

Hermione leaned up. “What is that?”

“Abraxas’s idea of a joke,” Tom scathed, wadding the fabric as though to discard it.

“I love them.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course you do.”

He relinquished the pajamas with great reluctance, shaking his head and tossing them across the room. Hermione caught the bundle with a small grin, separating the sleeveless tunic and wide-legged capris, the material buttery soft in her hands. She couldn’t deny the outfit looked far more comfortable than the restricting work attire she currently donned.

“Alright, I’ll change.”

Tom crossed his arms and leaned against the dresser. "I'd like to reinstate my original proposal for you going naked."

“Vetoed,” Hermione responded merrily, excited to discover the pants had pockets. She wanted a pair in every color.

“When your fever spikes you’ll be ripping those off at the seams.”

“Then you have something to look forward to.” She glanced up, meeting his annoyed stare with a terse grin. “Until then, please leave.”

He rubbed his brow but started for the door without argument or complaint, nearly through when Hermione stood from the bed and tipped backward, overcome by light-headedness.

The air shifted as she fell, her fever-ridden mind registering the blur of movement a heartbeat before Tom caught her beneath the arms, tipping her against his body. His sudden appearance was startling but she lacked the energy to muster more than a blink.

“It scares me when you do that,” she whispered.

“I know.” His hands moved to her waist, steadying her weight. “I can hear your heart.”

She slumped against him with her next exhale, relishing the chill he exuded. “You’re cold again.”

“Everything feels cold to you right now.”

“It’s more than that, you were ice when we met but warm at the cemetery.”

His eyes flickered, voice lower than moments before. “I made the mistake of not feeding prior to our first encounter. I didn’t repeat it on our second.”

Her heart thrummed, the thought more chilling than the hands gripping her waist. “So that means… you’re hungry now?”

His gaze drifted to her mouth. “I’m always hungry.”

Her entire body pulsed. His fingers tensed, bunching the fabric of her blouse.

“It’s the curse of our kind. We learn to manage it,” he continued, cool breath ghosting across her face. “You will, too.”

“The thought of drinking blood makes me want to hurl.”

He smirked. “You won't feel that way for much longer.”

Hermione pushed the dreadful thought aside, only to come to another horrifying conclusion. “I…” she swallowed thickly, seeing no way around it, “I might need your help… getting undressed.”

His expression remained unchanged. “I’d be willing to offer my assistance.”

She wasn’t fooled for a second. “Keep your eyes closed.”

His jaw tensed, though it seemed he was fighting back a grin.

“ _Please_ ,” she added, refusing to budge. She absorbed the answering chuckle into her body as his lids closed, hands sliding to her hips.

Hermione exhaled swiftly, twisting in his grasp and bracing a hand against his chest, feeling the steady pound of his heart as she unbuttoned her shirt. She focused on his face, waiting for him to open his eyes… but they remained dutifully shut, even as his lips quirked in amusement. Hermione knew then with utter certainty he wouldn’t peek. So she took the opportunity to study his features instead, free from the distraction of his glowing irises. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties; she wondered how old he really was, gaze drifting to his throat and the dark shadow of chest visible through the parting in his shirt—

She looked away, stomach tightening with guilt. He had the decency not to stare at her, it was only right to return the favor.

She had trouble getting her blouse off with one hand, tipping back and losing her balance. His grip tightened, blindly pulling her forward as his hands drifted higher. She held her breath, burning with fever as his fingertips skimmed along her back, erupting trails of gooseflesh in their wake.

“Why is it called the Hall of Two Truths?” He asked suddenly, voice low and thick.

Hermione blinked, startled by the interruption, and then she found her mind blessedly focused, so absorbed by the question she hardly noticed when his hands found her blouse and slowly peeled it from her sweat-slicked body.

“The Hall belonged to Maat, goddess of truth and harmony,” Hermione explained, always eager to share the myths that colored her childhood so vibrantly. “She wrote down forty-two virtues on papyrus, souls seeking entrance to the afterlife had to read them aloud while Anubis weighed their heart against Maat’s sacred feather. If they spoke a single lie their heart would tip the scale and be devoured by Ammit.”

He draped her blouse over his shoulder and reached for the zipper on her skirt, pulling it down the rest of the way.

“Then shouldn't it be called the Hall of Forty-One Truths and a Lie?” He asked casually, as though stripping women with his eyes closed was a nightly occurrence.

_Perhaps it is._

Her cheeks heated at the notion, even as she gripped his shoulders and stepped free of the skirt as it bunched around her ankles. And then her lungs deflated in a hissing rush as she stood before him in only her brassiere, underwear and stockings.

_Breathe, just breathe._

His hands settled on her bare waist. She swayed with the force of her heartbeat, feeling the rise of his chest as he inhaled, slow and deep.

“The Ancient Egyptians believed every force in the universe had a perfect opposite,” she continued, desperate for a distraction. "Life and death, good and evil, the sun and the moon. Everything came in a pair. The name is symbolic of the duality of nature and mankind."

“Hm.” The sound rumbled beneath her hands like a tiger’s chuff. “Fascinating,” he muttered, and then he grasped her hips and tossed her through the air.

Hermione shrieked as she flew backward, the sound cutting short when she bounced atop the mattress, curls catching in her mouth. She cringed, fishing the hair from her lips and tensing as he stalked forward with his lids still shut, stopping just before the bed and gripping behind her knee. His fingers skimmed down her calf, gathering her stocking at the ankle and pulling.

“I’m wearing garters,” she whispered, certain this was all an elaborate fever dream.

He turned to stone, hand tightening on her ankle as shadows bled across his face, transforming his visage into a malevolent mask of hunger. The change left her breathless, trapped between fear and something else… something wild and foreign and nameless. He moved at last, fingers tracing up her leg, intent clear.

“I can do it,” she said quickly, pushing his searching hand away. Letting him unfasten her garters was far too intimate an act, even with his eyes closed.

Tom continued to lean over her for an endless, throbbing beat. And then he slowly pulled back, standing tall, fists clenched at his sides. Hermione exhaled sharply, fingers clumsy as she unclasped the satin straps and rolled the stockings down her legs, feeling dangerously faint. She toed off the fabric and wrapped her arms over her middle, shivering despite the inferno raging under her skin.

“I’m… going to put the pajamas on now.”

He offered no response beyond the ticking of his jaw. She scrambled for the garments, breath ragged as she tugged the tunic overhead, vision turning dim as the mattress creaked beneath her shifting weight.

“How fortunate that corsets are out of fashion,” he muttered.

Hermione blinked, glancing up as she pulled the pants over her hips. “Not a fan?”

“On the contrary, I’m quite an avid supporter.” He crossed his arms, shirt pulling taut across his biceps. She looked away. “But I never developed the patience for unlacing them… and somehow I doubt you’d appreciate me tearing it off you.”

She tied the drawstring, refusing to be buried under mortification. “Considering their cost, I wouldn’t appreciate it one bit.”

He shook his head with a secretive grin. “May I open my eyes?”

“Hold on.” Hermione glanced down, inspecting her front. “Alright,” she said tentatively, nervous to give him back his sight.

His lids silently parted, stare gleaming as it studied her at leisure. “Fucking Abraxas.”

She scooted back on the bed, arms trembling before buckling at the elbows. He leaned down, slipping an arm under her knees and sliding her towards the headboard. Hermione settled into the pillows, smoothing a hand over her tunic.

“This is much more comfortable, please thank him for me.”

“I’ll pass along your regards before tossing him into the sunlight,” he replied with ease, releasing her legs and stepping back.

Hermione paled, the words triggering profound unrest. "Sunlight…" The nightmare played before her eyes, terror rekindled.

Tom offered no comfort or solace, reminding her that despite their close confines he was still a stranger. She wished Harry was here, her best friend always quick to offer a shoulder to cling to or cry on. Being without him for two years had been excruciating. Being without him now left her numb. Hermione had never felt so helpless and alone, not even when her father looked her in the eyes and called her by her mother’s name.

She sighed with exhaustion, fever boiling away her tears. “I’m tired,” she whispered.

“Good.” He tilted his head, examining her with a clinical eye. “The less you’re awake for the better.”

After leaving her with that sugar-coated nugget he backed away, turning for the door.

She wet her lips, gripping the sheets with trembling hands. “Tom.”

He stopped in the doorway, glancing back.

“You already knew it was called the Hall of Two Truths, didn’t you?”

His gaze steadied her more effectively than his hands on her hips. “Yes,” he answered plainly. “But I wanted to hear the story from the country’s leading Egyptologist.”

Hermione blinked, heart skipping, and then she grinned, loosening her hold on the bedding.

Tom rolled his eyes. “Sleep,” he instructed and turned off the light, gaze glinting in the darkness. “I’ll check in soon.”

Hermione bit her lip and turned on her side as he exited the bedroom and closed the door. Her heart continued to thrum long after his footsteps faded into the distance, for she knew he could hear every stuttering beat.

* * *

Ginny flew down the hall in a blind rush, panicked at the thought of arriving late to her first private meeting with her Queen. Hunger had turned her mind to mush. She’d lost track of time, walking around in a half-stupor while trapped between wakefulness and sleep. But after the grim portrait Rabastan had painted of their Maker, Ginny thought it best to keep her hunger pains a secret.

She zipped around the corner, breathless and clumsy, only to collide with someone heading in the opposite direction. They bounced apart with the impact, falling into opposite walls.

“Shit! Sorry!” Ginny gasped, pushing off the damask wallpaper and reaching out to help— only to rear back as she saw their face. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Weasley,” the asshole scathed, eyes narrowed to slits as he straightened his vest. “I should’ve known. Who else would be clomping through the halls like a lame horse?”

Ginny crossed her arms, spine ramrod straight. “Apologies, Flint. I was heading to my one-on-one debrief with our _Queen_. She’s waiting to hear about last night’s mission. You know, the one she selected _me_ for.”

He took a menacing step closer. “What, you think that’s something to brag about? She sent you on an errand to bring _us_ food. That’s all you’re good for, ginger rat. Playing the hired help.” His smile was filled with cruel delight. “After all, servitude runs in your blood. No one can scrub a toilet like your mother—”

Ginny let loose a feral scream and went for the jugular, her strict violence-for-self-defense only rule falling by the wayside in light of this most recent affront. Besides, everyone the world over knew that talking shit about mothers was a one-way ticket to an epic ass-whooping. She attempted to land a punch on his throat but her movements were as sluggish as her mind. He easily avoided the hit, pushing her squarely in the chest and sending her crashing into the opposite wall. Ginny growled low in her throat and charged forward like a drunk ram, headbutting his middle and driving him backward into a swinging door.

They exploded into a fancy parlor, bedazzled with glossy wood and silk upholstery, priceless artwork and glittering trinkets. Flint stumbled over the rug and tripped over an ottoman, prompting Ginny to lose her balance as well. They landed atop the coffee table, its legs buckling beneath their combined weight. They hit the ground with a crash, groaning in mutual pain.

Despite Marcus breaking her fall it took Ginny's fatigued body longer to recover. She barely saw the fist in time, rolling away before it broke her nose but not before it clipped her chin, his gaudy ring cutting her bottom lip. Blood filled her mouth and awoke her hunger in a wild frenzy.

She spat blood onto the finely woven rug and dove back in, straddling his chest before he righted himself and punching him square in the eye, relishing his shout of agony and rapidly swelling eyelid. He tried swinging again but lacked the depth perception to connect. She caught his wrist with both hands and twisted, causing the moron to buck and wail, veins straining as he fought to wrench his limb free.

“Ah! Fucking bitch!”

“Come off it, Flint,” she panted, thighs clenching to stay atop his thrashing middle, “we both know you've been dying to get under me for years.”

“Stupid cunt! I’m going to—”

“Am I interrupting?” A third voice asked from the doorway.

Ginny and Marcus froze mid-struggle, heads snapping round.

“Yes, actually,” Ginny said brightly, holding the newcomer’s gaze as she twisted the dickwad’s wrist further back. “So either piss off or enjoy the show.”

Flint hissed, thrashing anew and pleading like a child. “Lestrange! She attacked me! I was just walking—”

"Shut up," Rabastan stated evenly, leaving Flint to open and close his mouth like the world's dumbest fish.

He strolled inside, reaching into his jacket and extracting his silver case. The swinging door settled as he selected a cigarette with his lips and leaned against the bar, removing the golden lighter from his pocket and flipping the lid. He met her charged gaze over the flame and lit the end, inhaling deeply and glancing at her mouth.

“He split your lip?” Smoke rose with every word, creating a dark halo above his head. Ginny blinked, snapping free of the daze as he smirked and took another drag. “That’s embarrassing,” he continued, amusement dancing in his eyes.

She scowled, baring her teeth and irritating her lip, a fresh stream of blood running down her chin.

“You’ll have to finish emasculating him another time, I’m afraid.” Rabastan replaced his case and lighter, basking in her annoyance. “Bella’s waiting.”

Ginny huffed and released Flint’s arm with great reluctance. The bastard sneered, though the effect was undone by his tomato-red face and swollen eye.

“Get off me, slum rat!” Flint pushed her away with his uninjured hand, causing her to land on her ass as vertigo smacked her upside the head. He clamored to his feet with a grunt, lording over her. “This isn’t over! I’m going to—”

“Stop showing off for Lestrange,” she warned, nails pressing into the rug. “We both know I’ll lay you flat every time.”

Marcus flushed brighter yet, fists clenching as he backed away, keeping her framed in his sights until reaching the door. He chanced a glance at Rabastan, swallowing thickly as he met the man’s gleaming stare through the haze of smoke. He offered a nervous nod before scurrying from the room like a cockroach.

Rabastan watched the door swing shut. “Why do I get the impression you and Prince Charming met before coming here?”

“His grandfather owns Flint Legacy Suites,” she replied with a scowl, wiping the fresh trail of blood from her chin.

“The hotel?”

She nodded, flicking a chunk of table off her lap. "My mom used to be a maid there. Sometimes after school, I'd hang out in the lobby and wait for her to get off work." She tried to stand, a headrush slowing her ascent. "Marcus would show up every now and then to grab handfuls of cash from the office."

“I take it you weren’t friends?”

Ginny scoffed, leaning into the arm of the sofa to disguise her unintentional sway. Fortunately, the unpleasant trip down memory lane infused her with enough anger to override her hunger. “His ego enters a room ten minutes before he does. I knew he was a prick the moment I saw him. Conversely, he thought I was a raging bitch. Of course, neither of those things prevented him from making a pass at me.”

Rabastan tipped his head back, smoke billowing on a long exhale.

"Needless to say, I shot him down," Ginny continued, poison filling her veins. "A week later my mom got a pink slip in the mail. No explanation, no severance. Just a swift kick to the curb after years of hard work and dedication." Her eyes narrowed. "So no, we aren't friends. In fact, I should get a shiny gold star every day I _don’t_ punch that blue-ribbon shit-for-brains monkey’s ass in the face.”

Rabastan closed his eyes and shook his head before lowering his cigarette and glancing back to her mouth. “You’re still bleeding.”

“Keen observation,” she scathed, licking her bottom lip and striding for the door. “You must have been a doctor in a past life.”

“A cut that size should have healed by now,” he stated calmly at her back. She hesitated at the threshold, pressing fingertips to the stinging flesh. “You’re weak,” he concluded.

Ginny rolled her eyes. _This bastard…_

“It’s been a pleasure as always.” She pushed the swinging door with both hands and entered the hall, eager to be rid of him.

Naturally, he exited a few paces behind, following at a leisurely pace.

“You’re weak because you’re hungry. There’s a reason we feed fledglings around the clock like screaming, shitting newborns.”

“I skipped my high school parenting class so I’ll have to take your word for it.”

His dark laughter raked across her skin like jagged claws.

“Still mad?”

She ground her teeth and offered no response, knowing silence was often the best weapon. It certainly drove Ron up the wall when they were kids.

“I simply did what’s in our nature to do.” Tendrils of curling smoke trailed his path like grasping hands. “And soon enough, you will, too.”

“Cute rhyme, mother goose. But I already told you: I’ll _only_ drink bags.”

“Bella doesn’t like hard limits. She tells you to jump, you ask how high. She tells you to kill, you ask how many.”

Ginny paled, finally chancing a backward glance. His eyes simmered with intensity.

“If she sees your lip she’ll know you haven’t been drinking.”

Ginny licked the wound and stopped in her tracks, pulse skipping erratically. “I’m meeting with her right now, I can’t hide it.”

“Then feed,” he replied simply, halting just before her. Her nose twitched in irritation. He smirked, blowing smoke into her face for good measure before walking past. “Have a good meeting.”

Ginny stared at his back, panic rising as her resolve diminished. “I couldn’t drink if I wanted to,” she called out, voice thin. “I gave the last of it to…”

He stopped and slowly turned, smoke framing his profile as he pinned her beneath a knowing stare. Her stomach growled. Ginny flushed, pressing a hand to her middle. “It’s all gone,” she whispered.

Rabastan arched a brow, bringing the cigarette to his lips. The cherry burned bright as he inhaled, gaze unwavering. And then he tipped his head back, Adam’s apple bulging as he released a steady torrent of smoke to the ceiling. “That was stupid,” he mused.

Ginny sighed, rubbing her brow. Why was she even listening to him? He didn’t give a shit about what happened to her. “Screw it. I’m too exhausted to care,” she mumbled, dropping her hand and striding forward.

He grabbed her arm as she passed, nearly yanking her off her feet before pinning her flat to the wall. She gasped, then coughed on the cloud of smoke surrounding him like an aura. Ginny waved away the poison gas with a lethal glare. “What the fuck are you—”

“Quiet.”

He kept her flat with a hand to her chest, leaving her to watch in perplexity as he dropped the cigarette into a crystal flower vase, ashes muddying the water before sinking to the bottom. And then his fangs sprang free with an audible pop, drawing every last ounce of her focus.

Her struggles ceased as he lifted his hand to his mouth, dragging the pad of his thumb along the ivory point, parting the flesh in a clean line. Blood instantly welled to the surface, threatening to overspill. The scent reached her in the next heartbeat, heady and masculine like cologne. The aroma was far from appetizing but it made her stomach clench all the same.

She couldn’t look away, couldn't breathe or evade his touch as he reached forward and grasped her chin with his injured hand, rubbing his thumb across her torn lip, mixing their blood and pushing it into the wound. Her skin tingled, an itch buried deep beneath the surface as her flesh rapidly mended.

His blood spilled into her mouth, seeping between her teeth and creeping along her tongue, sweet and spicy, the intensity flooding her chest with warmth. She licked her lips on instinct, jolting when her tongue grazed the pad of his thumb by accident. He turned rigid as stone, eyes dropping to her mouth, pupils expanding until her slack-jawed expression was reflected with mesmerizing clarity. And then his gaze lifted, holding her captive in his sights as he released her chin and licked his thumb, the gash already sealed and narrow scar fading.

The tingling in her lip dissipated. Ginny raised a trembling hand, pressing the smooth flesh, breath sticking in her throat.

He held her gaze a moment more before taking a wide step back, expression tense and eyes dark. “Consider this the first and last favor I _ever_ do for you. The next time we go hunting, you feed. Am I clear?”

Ginny swallowed thickly, his blood lingering in the caverns of her mouth, clinging behind her teeth. She didn’t trust her voice so she merely nodded, peeling off the wall and straightening her shirt.

“Come on,” he clipped, starting down the hall.

Her head snapped up. “You’re in the meeting?”

“Keen observation,” he called over his shoulder. “You must have been a detective in a past life.”

Ginny set her jaw, the sinister spell cleanly shattered as she stomped after him.

* * *

Parvati crossed her arms and squirmed atop the metal chair, freezing and sore from sitting in the same spot for so long. Her patience had faded hours ago, her current company wearing down her last nerve.

“Can I get a blanket or something?” She asked tightly, crossing and uncrossing her legs to alleviate the skirt cutting into her circulation.

“We don’t have any blankets,” the officer replied without an upward glance from his paperwork. “Maybe next time you take a midnight stroll in the middle of November you think about wearing layers.”

She scowled. “I wasn’t out for a stroll.”

“Of course not. You were working.”

“I told you, I’m not a hooker.”

He glanced up at last, mustache sitting atop his patronizing smirk like a bushy caterpillar. “Let me guess, you’re a Sunday School teacher who just happened to be moseying down Washington in the dead of night.”

“I wasn’t _moseying_.”

“Ah, that’s right. You were fleeing the scene of a crime.”

Parvati huffed, shaking her head and pressing back in her chair. “This is bullshit.”

“Look, I’m just trying to help you out—”

“You’re detaining me without due cause!”

He arched a brow. “Sunday School teacher _and_ a lawyer, your father must be so proud.”

“My father's dead,” she clipped, staring at him like he was an idiot. “And this is harassment.”

“This is questioning the witness, which is also why you’re being detained. We’re operating completely within the letter of the law.”

Her jaw ticked, chewing on the scathing retort until she was certain it wouldn’t slip free. “Then why don’t you try asking me something about the actual crime?”

His smirk gave way to a sneer as he glanced back at his paperwork, lifting the page and skimming the text. “Tell me about Ronald Weasley.”

“He’s an idiot. What else do you want to know?”

Officer Dumbass glanced up. “He your boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Client?”

She glared, shoulders drawing tighter. “ _No_.”

“Pimp?”

She slammed her hands on the table. “Is there another officer I can talk to, preferably one with a fully functional brain?”

“You’re only making this harder on yourself.”

 _God give me the strength_ … “Weasley is an acquaintance. He and I discovered the body and ran for help.”

“Officer O'Brien had to chase you down.”

“We didn’t know we were being chased. Needless to say, we were a bit panicked at the time.”

He tilted his head. “Why were you panicked?”

“We just saw a man lying in fucking pieces, why do you think?”

“Watch your mouth!” He snapped. “Unless you want to be booked.”

She gaped beneath the glaring interrogation lamp. “Booked? On what charge?”

“How about tearing a man to fucking pieces?”

Her eyes flared wide, thoughts scattering. “What? You think _we_ did that? You can’t be—” Parvati blinked, arms crossing anew. “Of course not. You just want to avoid adding another unsolved case to the pile. You’ll pin this on anyone within pointing distance.”

“That’s a highly offensive accusation.”

"So is murder!" She struggled for control, closing her eyes and taking a steadying breath. "Look, you can't seriously be thinking of brushing this under the rug." Her lids peeled open, gaze burning bright. "Someone _slaughtered_ that poor fucker, you have to find the sick son-of-a-bitch before he does it again!”

“Again ?” His brow quirked. “You know something we don’t?”

“Evidently. And the list keeps growing by the second.”

He bared his teeth, leaning forward. “You filthy little—”

“Dawlish,” a third voice interjected.

The asshole jerked back in his seat, glancing at the open door. "Bones?" His shock bled into disdain. "This is a private interview."

“Indeed it is,” the newest entrant said with a grin, “except Ms. Patil is no longer your witness.”

The asshole blinked, turning more rigid than his chair. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Sergeant Ogden just gave me the case.”

“That’s bullshit!”

“You’re free to take it up with him. In the meantime,” Bones stepped inside and gestured to the hall, “this is a private interview.”

Dawlish ground his teeth and pushed back from the table, metal chair scraping the tile. “She’s all yours,” he muttered, rising to his feet and striding for the door. “As long as you have the cash to pay for it.”

Parvati scowled as the new guy shut the door on the bastard.

“I apologize for his behavior,” he stated with an air of sincerity, turning to the table.

“I’ve dealt with worse.”

He took a seat in the previously abandoned chair, scooting closer and meeting her gaze. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Parvati glared, refusing to trust a badge on principle. “What is this, some good cop bad cop routine to trick me into confessing to a crime I didn’t commit?”

“The victim was found with his ribcage torn apart, the bulk of his internal organs removed and a few pieces missing altogether.”

Her lungs stilled, choked by his emotionless description.

“I think it’s safe to say the perpetrator got their hands dirty,” he continued calmly, staring at the fingers resting atop her biceps. “And your hands appear very clean.”

Her fingers curled, blunt nails pressing into her flesh.

“I know you didn’t kill him and so does the rest of the precinct. But there’s a very good possibility you saw something of note, which is why it’s vital you recount every detail.”

“I just saw blood,” she rasped, closing her eyes. “I still see blood.”

"According to Mr. Weasley, the victim was still alive when you discovered him."

Her eyes popped open, muscles clenched tight. "There was a noise… then his foot twitched like it was having a spasm." Her arms unwinded so she could scratch the side of her neck, skin crawling at the memory. "I can't imagine that he was still alive after…" A full-body shudder caused her chair to rattle. "I don't understand how someone could do that to another human being, little less while they're still alive."

He nodded, appearing wholly unaffected by her chilling recount. “The world is a dark place.”

“I’m well aware,” she muttered, arms folded across her middle. “But I don’t know how I can help you. I didn’t see anything.”

He regarded her carefully. “Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions?”

“Am I allowed to say no?”

“Certainly. You aren’t under arrest.” He clasped his hands atop the table and leaned forward, eyes unblinking in their focus. “But I implore you to reconsider, Ms. Patil. You’re one of only two witnesses to a truly horrific crime, even the slightest detail could help me identify and capture the perpetrator. You could be saving an innocent life.”

Parvati ground her teeth, the wall-mounted clock ticking endlessly as she processed his words, finally glancing away with a sharp exhale.

“ _Fine_." She leveled her shoulders to let him know she meant business. "But I want coffee."

“I can do that,” he replied with a smirk. “What about a blanket?”

Parvati blinked. “Dawlish is _really_ an asshole.”

“You have no idea.” Bones pushed back from the table and stood. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

She watched him cross to the door, biting her lip before speaking up. “You already talked to Weasley?”

“I just finished his interview.”

Parvati nodded, footing tapping as she tried to form the question. “Is he…” her mind went blank. She shook her head and faced forward. “Nevermind.”

But the stranger seemed to know what she meant to say.

“He’s shaken up. Understandably so. I’ve asked one of my Officers to give him a ride home.”

Parvati stiffened, head snapping sideways. “He left?”

“No.” Bones grinned. “He said he was waiting for you.”

Her stomach loosened with her next breath, though the fact she felt any measure of relief where the red-headed moron was concerned could only be further evidence of her trauma.

“Coffee and cream,” she muttered, settling back.

Bones tilted his head. “What?”

“For my coffee. Feel free to pop a barbiturate in there as well.”

He laughed, opening the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Harry paced quickly down the sidewalk, scrubbing both hands across his face and sidestepping pedestrians moving in the opposite direction. His skull throbbed in time to his heart, nauseated by the overwhelming smell of sweat and grease and stale perfume. He swallowed thickly, fighting to keep the contents of his stomach contained.

_It’ll be over soon._

But his heightened senses were only partially responsible for his mind-numbing headache. No, Harry's main concerns were Ginny and Hermione.

Oh, and the medieval dungeon under his house.

“Oh my god,” Harry had whispered, the room laid before him defying comprehension.

“As I said before, Potter,” Malfoy drawled at his side. “You have a _very_ serious problem.”

Harry released a slow breath, gaze moving from the pile of chains on the ground to the metal chair bolted to the cement floor. Straps dangled from the legs and arms and backing, a contraption for the neck and head covered in buckled binds. His eyes flickered higher, spotting more chains fastened to the wall, rusted manacles on their ends. He swayed in place, bracing the doorframe to stay upright.

Malfoy shifted in his peripheral, crossing his arms and cocking his head. "As you can see, someone turned a perfectly functional wine cellar into a sex dungeon. What's more, they didn't even install the proper ventilation to make it a _usable_ sex dungeon. The space is utterly wasted.”

Harry rubbed his eyes.

"I hope you kept the contractor's number," Malfoy continued without taking a breath, "there are grounds for a lawsuit—"

“Shut up,” Harry muttered while taking a tentative step forward. Instinct screamed at him to run but his perverse fascination was even stronger. The room smelled like blood and sweat despite its long-abandoned appearance. He carefully stepped over chains, heart trapped in his throat. Touching anything seemed like a terrible idea. His entire body coiled with tension as he studied the chair up close, something wild clawing under his skin, desperate to break free. “It’s not a sex dungeon,” he stated gravely.

“No?” Malfoy placed his hands in his pockets, refusing to breach the threshold. “Perhaps that was wishful thinking on my part. The alternative is… unpleasant to ponder.”

Harry’s jaw worked silently. Malfoy tipped his head, tone uncharacteristically somber.

“As I said, words can’t describe it.”

“No,” Harry agreed, passing the chair at last. “They can’t.”

He stopped before the back wall, pulse throbbing at the deep slashes in the stone, dried blood splattering the chipped and cracked bricks. His arm shook as he raised his hand, fingertips lingering over the grooves, aligning perfectly.

Claw marks.

He jerked away, staggering back until chains impeded his path. Their rattling cry made him yelp, leaping over the pile as though they were alive, certain the manacles would come to like snapping claws.

“Seen enough?” Malfoy asked.

Harry nodded tightly, staggering to the doorway. “To last a lifetime.”

The blonde stepped back. “Now you know why I was reluctant to venture down a second time.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry stated, meeting his eye as he emerged.

Malfoy stiffened, the apology taking them both off guard.

“As unsettling as this arts and crafts room is, I’m more disturbed by _how_ I came across it.”

“Did Richard say anything?” Harry asked.

“Are you kidding? I couldn’t get him to shut up. Fortunately, none of his ramblings had anything to do with whips and chains.”

Harry carded a hand through his hair and pushed the door closed, eager to rid himself of the sight. “Mione said he likes to wander. He probably found the stairs and…” Harry sighed, squeezing the handle before pacing back.

“If you can’t make yourself believe it you stand little chance of convincing me,” Malfoy said without derision.

Harry turned to face him, daylight illuminating half their bodies. “Let’s get out of here.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve ever said.”

They’d fled the subterranean nightmare and parted ways soon after, though not before Malfoy inspected his car through a magnifying lens, convinced Harry had prolonged his return because he’d nicked the paint or dented the fender. Harry had been too drained to muster a complaint and Malfoy had looked too tired to drill into Hermione’s absence, leaving them at an awkward stalemate.

After the blonde's departure, Harry was eager to flee the mansion as well. But it was unmistakably evident Richard couldn't be left alone. Harry had no idea how the man had found his way into the hidden chamber, nor did he ponder the fact his Godfather clearly knew of its existence. The hidden room was filthy from disuse, a remnant of a time best forgotten. There were more pressing matters which required his full attention and energy. So Harry had paced the halls until Susan arrived, then bolted out the front door so quickly he'd tripped over the uneven slats in the porch.

His first destination had been the Burrow. After the trauma of his night and morning, he was in desperate need of a friendly face. Seeing Ron would settle his nerves and provide some much-needed focus. So he'd braved the subway to the edge of the island and hailed a cab over the bridge, then trudged it the rest of the way into the heart of Queens, senses overwhelmed by the time he reached the white-picket-fence.

Harry opened the gate and started up the lop-sided path to the lop-sided house, nearly levitating with relief. He took the steps two at a time before pounding eagerly on the door. But only silence greeted him. He clenched his teeth and knocked again, rocking back on his heels as the tension returned to his limbs, climbing steadily up his spine as he peeked into the front window. Its curtain was drawn but between the narrow part in the folds he was able to see the dark, still interior.

“Shit.”

He lingered on the porch for over an hour before finally admitting defeat. His body felt like stone as he stepped away from the Burrow, exhaustion wearing his mind thin. His catnap in the churchyard had been anything but restful but sleep was out of the question, not when two of his friends were missing.

_Okay… time for Plan B._

Harry gathered the remaining scraps of his sanity and started down the steps, realizing there was no Plan B. Hermione was always the one who thought two steps ahead, creating back-up plans for her back-up plans.

Fuck it.

He worked better on the fly anyway. And no one flew by the seat of their pants like Harry Potter.

* * *

Ginny stopped beside Rabastan, shifting restlessly as she faced the closed door. She wondered if Bella would notice her hunger pains, and more specifically, what her Queen would do about it. So far Bella had been nothing but accepting and generous to her fledglings, yet the portrait Rabastan painted during last night’s mission and subsequent hallway encounter left her thoroughly confused and anxious.

_Why would you listen to that asshole anyway? He’s clearly got some grudge against his Maker. Don’t become his pawn._

She tugged at her shirt collar, still uncomfortably warm from his blood. The thought made her burn even hotter, squirming in place.

“Stop fidgeting. You look guilty,” he muttered.

“Stop barking orders. You look constipated.”

He scowled, lips parting on retort—

“I could listen to your biting foreplay for hours,” Bella’s voice filtered through the door, “unfortunately, I have a schedule to keep. Flutter inside, my little love birds.”

Ginny stiffened, forgetting all about her Queen’s supersonic hearing. She swallowed nervously and reached for the handle, feeling compelled to glance at the man beside her one last time though she had no idea why, nor did she understand the look he pinned her with, something in his eyes making her stomach clench. She tore her gaze away and opened the door, striding inside while she still had the strength to remain upright.

The Flower Room —or so she’d come to think of it— was even more jam-packed than on her first visit. Dozens of oversized vases littered the tables and cabinets, overflowing with colorful, fragrant blooms. The scent of nectar and pollen was overwhelming, making her head throb. But nothing could distract from the presence at the front of the room.

Her gaze was drawn like a magnet to the woman standing behind a long ivory table meticulously tending to a magenta bouquet. Petals and leaves were piled at her feet and scattered across the marble, making Ginny feel a twinge of sympathy for Winnie, the nervous maid who was undoubtedly responsible for vacuuming up the mess each night.

And then Bella’s dark eyes lifted and Ginny came to an abrupt halt, her thoughts following suit. She swayed with the intensity of their connection, the intangible cord feeling stronger than in days prior, slithering around Ginny’s neck like a noose. She dipped into an atrocious curtsy to mask her unease, relying on humor to break the tension. Her heart skipped with victory as Bella erupted into delighted laughter.

Rabastan rolled his eyes as he strode past, reaching into his jacket.

“Don’t even _think_ about reaching for that silver case,” Bella admonished as she returned to her flowers. “You’ve filled enough of my rooms with poison.”

He set his jaw, hand tensing before dropping empty to his side. Ginny wondered if he was addicted to nicotine or the act of smoking itself. She hardly saw him without a cigarette or cigar between his lips. It reminded her of Percy and his pen caps, nervously chewing away as he wrote, or Ron and his football, constantly tossing it between his hands as he wandered the halls between classes—

She swallowed tightly. _Stop thinking about them._

It was then she noticed Bella’s eyes were fastened steadily to her.

_Shit. Is she able to read minds?_

No one had said anything about telepathy but Ginny was still waiting on her _How to Vampire_ learner’s manual.

“Ginevra, are you feeling quite well?” Her Queen asked in a sultry purr.

Fuck my life. “Yeah!” Ginny cringed, her voice way too high and eager. “I mean, yes. I’m great, err, good.” Jesus Christ. “I just haven't been to bed yet.”

Bella's watchful stare narrowed. Ginny released a slow breath, heartbeat thrumming as a slow smile unfurled across her Queen's face. "Your body is still adjusting, you must get plenty of rest."

Ginny nodded tightly, hands clasped behind her back.

"We'll make this debrief fast," Bella continued, removing a pink bloom from the bouquet and glancing at Rabastan. "Report?"

He stopped before the desk, prompting Ginny to scurry forward, wanting to appear on equal footing before their Maker. “The mission was a success,” he said. “We successfully destroyed the cargo.”

“Every last bit?” Bella prompted.

“Every last last bit.”

Ginny stiffened at his quip, jaw clenching as she stared pointedly ahead.

Bella arched a manicured brow, glancing between them as she lifted a gleaming blade and sliced through a stem. “I take it the partnership was a success?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Rabastan clipped.

Bella smirked. “And how would you describe it?”

“A pain in the ass.”

Ginny rolled her eyes.

“I wasn’t speaking to you.” Bella’s dark gaze flickered. “Ginevra?”

Ginny’s spine straightened. “A red hot poker up the ass.”

Bella chirped with laughter. “And yet you both overcame your grievances for the sake of the mission objective.” Her eyes drifted back to Rabastan. “More astounding yet, you acted outside of your own self-interests. I must pair you with Ginevra more often.”

He stiffened.

“Please don’t,” Ginny begged.

Bella sighed, turning back to the flowers with a faraway look. “Oh, how I wish I could be there when brother dearest gets the report.” The blade sliced through thorns and leaves effortlessly. “Alas, the fantasy of his head exploding will have to suffice.”

Ginny chewed on the inside of her cheek, feeling dangerously light-headed.

“I hear there’s a problem with our blood supply,” Bella continued. Ginny glanced away, the words settling like stones in the pit of her empty stomach.

“Mungo’s had a contamination issue,” Rabastan supplied easily. “They threw out most of the bags. More are en route.”

Ginny blinked, glancing sideways. He continued to stare ahead, posture relaxed.

“Which is just as well,” he continued in a bored drawl. “It was due time we gave the fledglings something fresh.”

Bella hummed, setting the blade aside and awarding Ginny with her full attention. “And how did you enjoy your first hunt, darling?”

Ginny tried to mimic Lestrange’s easy demeanor while feeling on the verge of collapse. “It was… enlightening.”

A tittering laugh swept her in a warm embrace.

“You never fail to surprise me,” Bella said, eyes and teeth gleaming beneath the swooping chandeliers. “I adore surprises. Almost as much as I detest _lurking_.”

Ginny stiffened at her Queen's change in tone, the warning clear, and then she noticed the woman was gazing past her shoulder.

“Rodolphus, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

The door opened, his broad figure emerging. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“That’s a first,” Rabastan muttered.

Rodolphus glared at the back of his brother’s head. “I strive to be a gentleman, we need at least one in the household.”

“We also need to dispose of a body, think you can manage that, Sir Galahad?”

Ginny cringed, gripping the edge of the lacquered table for balance.

"Enough," Bella clipped. "Unless you boys plan on continuing this fight whilst shirtless neither Ginevra or I am interested in playing witness." The men stiffened but remained silent. Ginny let go of the table, praying for this meeting to end.

“Rodolphus, continue,” their Queen commanded.

His shoulders drew wide as he started forward, lifting an envelope in his hand. “Your lapdog was here.”

Bella smiled. “And where is he now?”

“I sent him away before he pissed all over the rugs.”

"Jealousy looks dashing on you, pet." She lifted a palm. "Let's see what my favorite daywalker has to say."

Rabastan scratched the back of his neck as his brother handed off the letter, looking just as eager to escape, likely jonesing for a cigarette. Ginny took a steadying breath, the heady floral aroma pressing in from all sides like a poison cloud.

"I'll leave you to your conspiring," he said, turning on his heel without preamble.

Bella retook her blade, eyes focused on the wax seal. “Once upon a time you waited for my dismissal.”

Rabastan halted, rocking in place like a statue. Ginny could practically hear the acid eat through the floor as he forced the words free. “With your permission, my Queen.”

Bella offered a saccharine smile and sliced through the envelope, extracting the paper inside. “Granted.” Her eyes flickered to Ginny as she unfolded the letter. “You’re free to run along as well, darling. Though try not to waste the _entirety_ of your morning on foreplay, you’re in dire need of sleep.”

Ginny flushed, nodding her head in deference before pacing slowly back. “My Queen.” She turned just as carefully, afraid of losing her balance, and promptly followed Rabastan to the door.

“Has he found her?” She heard Rodolphus ask.

The door became the focal point of her entire existence. Nothing mattered but reaching the hallway…

“It seems our mysterious egyptologist now resides at 12 Grimmauld,” Bella replied, halting the earth’s rotation.

Ginny’s muscles petrified as the ground fell away, gravity fleeting.

Rabastan paused in the doorway, glancing back. “Red.”

But his voice was distant, easily ignored. Unlike the voice of her Queen which filled every crevice of her mind.

“Looks like we'll be paying a visit to Gramercy.”

Rodolphus hummed. “It’s been a while.”

Ginny blinked, vision turning dim as her body turned to ice, crystals forming on her tongue, cold and bitter. She wondered if this was what dying felt like… True death, or whatever came after this sham of an existence. Her breathing turned shallow as she chanced a backward glance, eyes centered on the unassuming page in Bella’s hands.

“ _Red_.”

She whipped back around. Rabastan stood just before her, face tight with annoyance.

“Is there a problem?” He bit out, eyes filled with the same silent message as in the hall. But this time she was able to recognize it for it was… a warning.

Ginny lifted her chin. “No,” she answered with a smile, stepping around his menacing figure and entering the hall. “No problem at all.”

* * *

Tom exited the bedroom, softly closing the door at his back before crossing the living room. She was deep under, curled atop the bed like a cat. But her casual sprawl did little to abate the unease tightening his shoulders and chest.

He cracked his neck, entering the kitchen and opening the icebox, staring at the blood bags stacked within. He'd counted them a hundred times over, pacing the cabin just as many times, restless and impatient. He closed the lid and leaned against the counter, gripping the edge of the granite and staring at the ceiling.

Bloody hell he hated waiting.

He checked his LeCoultre, catching his reflection in the crystal before noting the hour.

_Don’t do it._

Tom lowered his arm, bracing the counter once more.

_Don’t fucking do it._

He tapped his foot.

_Christ. Just get it over with._

He stepped forward, jerking the phone off its holder and grinding his teeth with every rotation of the dial. He held the receiver to his ear, leaning back as the cord coiled before his feet. The line rang twice before he heard a click, the answering voice causing his shoulders to ease of their own accord.

“How is she?” The man asked by way of greeting.

"Alive" Tom clipped, staring at the row of cabinets ahead. "That isn't why I called. I need you to cross-reference last month's inventory with—"

“Did she like the pajamas?”

Tom scrubbed a hand over his face. There was no avoiding it, the bastard would be relentless until Tom gave him something to chew on.

“That’s the last time I send you shopping, you bloody Quaker.”

“I have no doubt you would have chosen a see-through teddy,” Abraxas replied with passive-aggressive perfection, “however, I thought Hermione’s comfort took priority over your base desires.”

Tom rolled his eyes, attempting to get back on course. “Has anything burned down in my absence?”

Ominous silence.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

“I was waiting until you returned—”

“Abraxas.”

A weary sigh echoed through the line. “The Charlotte was vandalized.”

Tom’s eyes flashed, visage murderous as he found his reflection in the glass-inset of the cabinet. “Vandalized _how_.”

“Charred to her frame. Investigators say the blaze started in the cargo hold.”

He set his jaw, grip tightening on the phone until it threatened to snap like the previous seven. “It was Bella,” he said, voice calm as death.

“There’s a chance—”

“It was Bella. Or more specifically, her rabid dog. He’s the only one stupid enough to burn down an entire goddamn ship to cover his tracks.”

Abraxas sighed again. “It bears Rabastan’s signature. Still, dock patrol didn’t see anything—”

“You’ve spoken to them?”

“I read the report. They’re coming to the Penthouse in the morning—”

“Kill them.”

“I thought I might question them first.”

“Fine. Question them. Then kill them.”

“I take it things aren't going as planned on your end.”

Tom’s gaze shifted to the reflection of the closed bedroom door at his back. “The only plan is to expect the unexpected, in that regard, things are going smashingly.”

“Has she thrown you into any more walls?”

“The night’s still young.” He tore his gaze from her door, carding a hand through his hair. “She’s been out since this morning.”

Try as he might to keep his tone unconcerned, Abraxas read him like an open book from nearly three hundred miles away.

“That’s probably for the best,” the blonde replied evenly.

The silence festered. Tom cracked his neck a second time. _Fuck it_.

“Her fever’s high and her heartbeat’s weak. It’s too soon for blood and she’s past water.” He glanced up, staring at the cracks in the paint. “She may be progressing faster than her system can cope with.”

Abraxas inhaled slowly, undoubtedly choosing his words carefully, well-versed in his Maker's explosive nature. "She's already exhibited abilities so we know her body is compatible. She'll get through it," the blonde replied at last, opening a drawer.

Tom’s glanced forward as Abraxas shifted on the other line, rummaging for something.

“But we can use another host if you—”

“No,” Tom stated with finality, staring at the reflection of her door.

_“Keep your eyes closed.”_

He lifted his chin.

_“You already knew it was called the Hall of Two Truths, didn’t you?”_

“I’m seeing it through to the end with her.”

The silence swelled.

“There’s a silk chemise in the bottom drawer beneath the towels,” Abraxas said. Tom could hear his grin.

“Devious bastard,” he muttered, hearing another drawer open and close. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Catching up on paperwork.”

The answer came quick and easy. A bit too quick and much too easy. Tom rubbed his throbbing temples. Over a century of practice and his progeny still couldn’t lie for shite. He'd be amused if he wasn’t so embarrassed.

"I wasn't joking about the dock workers," Tom said, leaving the man to his secrets for the time being. "They're either incompetent fools or on her payroll. Get rid of them."

Hermione’s bedroom door flew open without warning. Tom blinked, watching her reflection in the cabinet as she stalked into the living room.

“I’ll take care of it,” Abraxas replied, opening another fucking drawer.

Tom tilted his head, watching the show unfold. “We’ve just graduated into heat delirium.”

A beat.

“What’s she doing?”

“Turning all the books upside down on the shelf.” Tom tilted his head the other way. “Now she’s dragging the sofa cushions into the fireplace.” His fingers drummed atop the counter. “Ah, and now she’s taking off her nun habit. Excellent.”

“Tom—”

"Relax, the illustrious striptease is over. She's trapped her arms inside the shirt."

Another weighted sigh. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“Funny, I was about to say the same to you. Enjoy your _paperwork_.”

Tom hung up without awaiting a response, stepping over the cord and entering the living room. Hermione stumbled blindly across the rug, shirt covering her face and trapping her arms as she collided with the floor lamp, staggering back.

“Easy, luv.”

Tom caught her waist, turning her around and pulling the shirt upward, freeing her limbs. Her hair spilled out in a gleaming flood, curls dancing across her shoulders.

“That’s better,” he murmured, taking in her flushed face. He could feel the heat rolling off her body in waves, carrying her scent with it. “I see you’ve caught a second wind.”

She blinked twice, eyes dazed as she glanced about the room. “I need Harry.”

“And I need you to stay in bed.”

“Something’s wrong with him,” she murmured, swaying precariously.

“There’s not enough hours in the day to delve into that understatement.”

“I have to go to him. He needs me.”

“You’ll see him soon.”

“I need him _now_ ,” she snapped, gaze slit in warning. Paired with the fact she made no attempt to grab her shirt or cover herself, Tom suspected her mind was scattered to high hell.

“Am I going to have to tie you to the headboard?”

“There’s a scorpion on my pillow.”

He rubbed his brow. _Only her_ … “I’ll get rid of it.” He gestured to the bedroom. “Show me where it is.”

She tilted her head, lashes fluttering. “I don’t want to get rid of it.”

For fuck’s sake.

“Even better, show me where it is and I’ll help you name it.”

“That’s silly,” she said, eyes frantically searching the room. “He already has a name.” And then she turned, starting for the front door.

Tom sighed, Abraxas’s voice filling his head.

_“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”_

Well, that ruled out pretty much everything. It seemed he’d have to get creative.

But she spared him the struggle because the moment Tom reached for her an explosion of blinding light filled the room, casting his vision white and searing his retinas. He cringed back, blinking rapidly as the flash dimmed, only to realize the glow emanated from her body, skin glowing with the same shimmering brilliance of their first encounter. And true to form, she completed the recreation by slamming both hands against his chest with lung-crushing force.

Tom hurtled backward through the air, braced for impact. Still, colliding with the fireplace hurt like a black-tooth. Bricks cracked and fell as he slid down, hitting the mantle and snapping it in half before landing atop the cushions she’d piled beneath, debris and decorations raining atop his head and shoulders. He groaned, rolling upright and searching for her.

A pulsing light filled the kitchen. She exited a moment later, holding an empty wine glass to her ear as though listening for the ocean. Tom shook the dust from his hair as she tossed the glass over her shoulder, glass shattering against the wall. Her body continued to glow, brimming with power and not an ounce of sanity. Wonderful. Finally, she wandered into the bedroom.

Tom stood slowly, muscles roaring in protest. He rubbed his chest, feeling as though he’d been struck by a cannon blast. Again.

“Bloody hell.”

He tossed a cushion aside and followed her into the bedroom just in time to watch her kick off her pants and sprawl atop the bed in her underwear, hair scattered across the sheets as the glow faded from her skin.

He tilted his head, pausing in the doorway. “Hermione.”

"The North Star changes, you know," she mused idly, studying the ceiling as though it was a map of the cosmos. "Every 26,000 years the pole rotates through 14 different stars. When the Pyramids were built they aligned to Thuban." Her knees bent, fingers playing with her curls as sweat rolled across her skin. "Even with Sirius and Vega shining bright overhead, they knew to focus on a dim, tiny light twinkling above."

Tom rubbed his shoulder and crossed the room, opening the bottom dresser drawer and pushing aside the towels.

“I wonder what the night sky will look like in another millennium,” she muttered, seemingly oblivious to his presence.

“If you continue tossing me into brick walls I may never find out,” Tom replied, starting towards the bed with the black silk chemise in hand. “Sit up.”

She followed instructions without argument, much to his surprise. He didn’t waste time contemplating her compliance, merely lowered the chemise over her head and helped pull her arms through, her skin burning hot to the touch.

She rose to her knees, the chemise falling to mid-thigh as one of the straps slipped off her shoulder. "I'm dying," she said casually, perching on the edge of the mattress and meeting his eye.

He lifted the fallen strap back into place. “It only feels that way,”

She tilted her head, hair tumbling to one side. “Who are you?”

Tom watched a bead of sweat run the length of her neck and chest, absorbed by the lace trim of her brassiere. “I’m many people,” he replied.

Her gaze drifted down his face. “Do you like any of them?”

He blinked, eyes darting back up, trapped by her guileless stare.

“I’d rather be one person,” she continued. “I don’t want her in my head.”

His brows creased as she carded her hands through her hair and pressed the heels of her palms against her temples. “There isn’t room for both of us.”

Tom reached up slowly and grabbed her chin, running the pad of the thumb across her lips and earning her rapt focus.

“Everything comes in a pair,” he whispered.

Her arms dropped to her sides, heavy and lifeless as she held his gaze, breath dancing across his fingers in a scalding rush. Her heart thrummed in his ears, beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings. And then her eyes rolled back in her head as her body tipped back, collapsing atop the mattress in a graceless sprawl.

Tom sighed, rubbing his eyes before leaning forward and arranging her limbs in a more comfortable position. Then he turned and lowered to the floor, leaning against the side of the bed and tipping back his head, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the stars beyond would like in another millennium.

* * *

The clouds turned a tarnished gold as late-afternoon became early evening, the watercolor sky the only measure of time passed. The clock in the interrogation room had meant little to Ron, though it seemed the numb stupor had less to do with those white walls than he originally thought. The grey mist had followed him into the outside world, obscuring his thoughts and vision at every turn.

He continued forward in a daze, nearly colliding with a metal post until Parvati grabbed his shirt and pulled him out of its path.

“Christ, Weasley.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes as she stepped away. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

Parvati sighed. “Tell me about it. I’m going to have to skip my readings tonight.”

Ron glanced sideways. “Readings?” She didn’t seem the bookish type. Nor did she offer an explanation, merely shaking her head with her customary air of annoyance.

“Nevermind,” she said, crossing her arms and gazing ahead. He’d lent her his jacket when they’d left the station, though people still sent sideways glances at her bare legs. She answered their gawking stares with a half-hearted scowl, too drained to offer up her usual biting remarks.

Ron gazed aimlessly ahead. “I still can’t believe—”

“We should stop talking about it.”

“Why?” He asked, stumbling over a crack in the sidewalk.

“Talking about it means thinking about it.” She sent him a pointed look. “Do you want to think about it?”

He righted his course, carding a hand through his rumpled hair. “No, but I can’t stop replaying it in my mind.”

“The memory will fade.”

Ron shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He took a deep breath, red dripping down his vision like melted wax. “What could have done—”

“ _What_ did I just say?” She snapped, earning the attention of the newsstand operator as they passed. The man leaned forward, blatantly staring at her legs until Ron flashed him a warning glare.

“Lav and Gin are still missing,” he said, facing forward as they rounded the corner, “meanwhile, there's something ripping people apart in goddamn the streets. I can’t just _ignore_ it—”

“Something?”

“What?”

Parvati arched a brow. “You said _something_ is ripping people apart.”

“You really think a person is capable of wrenching open a chest with their bare hands?”

She bristled, facing forward. “They probably had tools.”

"He looked like mincemeat."

“Enough,” she hissed, shoulders drawn tight.

"I'm serious, Parvati. There are monsters roaming this city—"

“Fucking hell, don’t start this shit again—”

“Harry and I told you about the vampires—”

“I agree there’s a monster prowling the streets but that _doesn’t_ make him supernatural! He’s just another run-of-the-mill psychopath with a penchant for turning people into ground beef!”

Ron stopped in his tracks, oblivious to the curious stares they’d attracted from nearby pedestrians.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, eyes gleaming with the memory.

Parvati slowed, glancing back with unveiled annoyance. “Jesus, what now?”

“Nott warned us…”

“Nott?” She paced closer with narrowed eyes. “The quack Doctor who told you vampires exist?”

A bolt of electricity zipped down his spine as the connection sparked. “He also told us someone is turning people into human chew toys.”

“Come again?”

“I need to speak with him,” he continued in a daze, drawing a hand over his mouth, “find out if he’s learned anything new, he might be able to tell us if last night was related—”

Parvati clapped her hands in front of his face, bursting his thoughts like a confetti bomb. “Snap out of it!” She yelled. “This is _beyond_ ridiculous.”

Ron scowled. “At least I’m trying to keep an open mind.”

“At least I’m trying to stay focused on Lavender and your sister! You really think chasing down imaginary monsters will bring them back?”

“What happened last night wasn’t imaginary!” He argued. “Bones said there were parts _missing_.”

“And in what fucked up children’s book do vampires eat organs?”

“I told you, there’s a goddamn cannibal targeting women—”

“Wait,” she stuck her palm in his face, causing him to rock back. “Targeting women? You didn’t say that before.”

He blinked. “Does it make a difference?”

“Yes, moron!” She crossed her arms, hands lost in his borrowed jacket. “What type of women?”

“I don’t know.”

Her jaw ticked. “And you didn’t think to tell me this sooner?”

“I didn’t think you’d believe me,” he bit back, “and until thirty seconds ago I was right.”

“I don’t believe in _vampires_. But a cannibal is based in reality —a demented reality— but reality nonetheless. And if he’s really targeting women it’s worth looking into.”

They continued to stare at each other, stewing in mutual frustration until a car drove past, reminding Ron they still stood in the middle of the sidewalk. He sighed, glancing away.

“I’ll visit Nott tomorrow and see what I can—”

“Nice try,” Parvati snapped, turning on her heel and continuing forward. “I’m coming with you. I need to determine for myself how reliable this so-called Doctor is, assuming he isn’t merely a figment of your five-year-old imagination.”

Ron dragged a hand over his face, following at her heels. “Fantastic.”

“We need to leave early, my shift starts in the afternoon.” She glanced over her shoulder as they turned onto her street. “Are you heading back to Queens?”

He kicked aside a tin can in his path. “That’s where I live.”

“You can crash here.”

Ron blinked, tripping over the can he’d just kicked and stumbling into a hydrant. Parvati rolled her eyes.

“Unless you prefer making the round-trip in the dark?”

“No,” he said, swerving around a tree like a drunk. “I… crashing here is good. Thanks.”

Her steps slowed in front of her building. “Don’t thank me yet. The couch is hard as a rock.”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes burning with fatigue as he followed her up the steps. “I could sleep on a bed of nails right now.”

Parvati opened the lobby door with a poison grin. “If you wake me before my alarm goes off I'll be putting that claim to the test.”

* * *

Theo adjusted the magnifier with one hand and the slide with the other, trying to make sense of the madness before him. He’d been inspecting the black bile for the last two hours and was still no closer to figuring out what the hell it was or how it came out of her.

He leaned back with a heavy sigh, cracking his neck and closing his eyes. He’d been buried under work all day, refusing to sleep. Or rather, _apprehensive_ to sleep. Losing consciousness in her presence seemed like a bad idea on all accounts. She was calm and docile in his company but there was no telling when that would change, when she may attack or attempt to leave…

He glanced to the corner of the room, studying her silhouette in the shadows. She was lying sideways on his cot, buried up to her chin under the blanket. Her breathing was soft and even, body still and peaceful. Gazing upon her innocent form, it was almost impossible to believe she’d eaten a man alive.

Theo shook his head, dragging a hand over his face and turning back to his microscope, questioning his sanity. He couldn’t be fooled by her current state. While he didn’t think it was an act he knew she had little control over her urges. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down, little less when they were locked inside a windowless warehouse together—

“Theo?”

He jolted, nearly tipping off the stool at the soft utterance. She was still lying on her side but her eyes glowed from the darkness, less bright than hours prior. The sight was unnerving… and yet he didn’t find himself tensing with the same instinctual fear as before.

_Don’t let your guard down._

He swallowed thickly, rolling his stool to face her. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I don’t like to sleep,” she replied softly.

His spine turned to brick. “Why not?”

“I see things when I close my eyes.”

A heavy beat.

“Like what?” He prompted carefully, curiosity and panic clouding his good sense.

She looked away, legs curled beneath the blanket. “Will you tell me a story?”

Theo blinked, mind rendered perfectly blank at the innocent request. “I… don’t know any stories.”

“A story about me,” she said, eyes flickering up. “My past.”

Fuck. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Something. I can’t remember who I was. I can’t remember you.”

His chest tightened at the misery in her voice. The emotions of others rarely affected him, but Anastasia was his responsibility and her current suffering was entirely his doing. _Is this was guilt feels like?_ He was quite certain he didn’t like it.

“Alright,” Theo uttered as last, forcing his legs to unbend and carry him across the lab. While he knew watering the lie would only wrap its vines tighter around his neck he couldn’t risk losing her to honesty. If Anastasia left she took any hope of finding a cure with her. The research came first, before anything and anyone, their lives included. When her mind recovered, _if_ it recovered, he would tell her the truth. But right now she was unstable, fatally so, and she needed him as much as he needed her.

He stopped beside the cot, shuffling under the beam of her amber stare as he grabbed a chair and pulled it closer. Her features became easily discernible as he joined her in the shadows, particularly the golden tumble of her hair across his pillow. He glanced away, eyes drifting lower as she kicked the blanket to the foot of the cot. She’d taken off her borrowed trousers to sleep, adorned only in his white dress shirt and striped boxers. His face burned hotter than a Bunsen burner.

“I… don’t know where to begin,” he muttered, making a pointed effort to stare at her face. And he meant that quite literally; in all the ensuing chaos he’d never taken the time to manufacture her backstory.

“Hm…” She rolled onto her back and folded her hands atop her bare stomach where the shirt had ridden up. Theo rubbed his forehead, adding women’s clothing to the ever-expanding list in his mind. “Tell me about my parents,” she said brightly, toes wiggling with excitement.

His heart skipped, an image of his father coming to mind and bringing the customary wave of nausea with it. He cleared his throat, pushing forward. “Your parents… loved you very much.”

She tilted her head, watching him curiously. “Are they dead?”

Theo caught his slip. _Great job, idiot_. “Um, well…” His mind raced. Was it better if they were dead? _If they’re alive she’ll undoubtedly want to contact them…_ “Yes. They died a long time ago.”

Her face betrayed no reaction. She merely grabbed a strand of golden hair and twisted it around her finger. “How?”

"They… got sick." He rubbed the back of his neck. "It was quite sudden. Afterward, you came to live with us."

She continued to search his face, making him squirm anew, certain she could read the lie written across it. “We grew up together?”

Theo realized he was tapping his foot, a nervous tick he hadn’t succumbed to in many years. He gripped his knee and forced his leg still. “Yes.”

“Did we get along?”

The question threw him for a loop, the pathways of her mind unpredictable. He didn’t normally like unpredictability but found the change in pace strangely refreshing.

“Of course,” he replied.

She faced upward, gazing at the ceiling and continuing to play with her hair. “I wish I could remember being a child, or what my parents looked like… or the sound of them saying my name.”

He leaned forward, drawn by his desire to offer her something of worth. Something real to hold in her heart. “You were named after my mother.”

“Really?” Her head snapped sideways, amber gaze flickering.

He inhaled slowly, hands clasped between his knees. “Her birth was… complicated. My grandmother — _our_ grandmother— said she came out blue and limp. The midwife thought she was dead but grandmother refused to let them take her away, insisting she could be brought back.” The silence was absolute. He realized she was holding her breath, hanging on every word. “It took them five attempts to clear her lungs before she drew her first breath.”

She sat up slowly, focused upon his face as his own gaze drifted, lost within the tale.

“They chose the name Anastasia because it means resurrection. They were convinced she came back from the dead to be with them.”

She smiled, bending her knees and clutching her bare legs. “Is she a good mother?”

Theo swallowed heavily, meeting her gleaming stare. “I like to think she would have been.”

Confusion rippled across her features.

“My birth was complicated as well,” he explained. “Unfortunately, she didn’t resurrect a second time.”

Anastasia tensed before leaning forward and grasping his hand. His shoulders pulled tight as their fingers interlaced. He stared at their joined palms, swaying with the force of his heartbeat.

A timer went off on the lab table, faint and distant but managing to obliterate the moment like a dynamite blast.

Theo leaped to his feet, nearly knocking the chair on its side before tugging his hand away. "I've got to check the temperature on one of the batches. You should try and get some more sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow."

“Theo.”

He straightened, braced for another curve-ball. She was happy to oblige.

“There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there?”

His hand twitched, still warm with her phantom touch. Lies sprouted from the ether but he couldn’t bring himself to force another one upon her. “Yes,” he whispered. “But I’m going to fix it.”

She smiled, laying back down. “I’m lucky to have you.”

The declaration struck like another arrow, rocking him back.

"I'll be in the lab if you need me," he muttered, turning away as the jagged point plunged deeper and deeper until Theo was no longer certain which of them was alive and which was the walking dead.

* * *

Moonlight reflected off the damp pavement in a shimmering line as though the very cosmos guided his path. And yet Abraxas felt a twinge of guilt as he continued forward, questioning his sanity for the tenth time since leaving the Penthouse.

He rarely acted outside the scope of his role and would certainly never engage in such selfish interests while Tom was present. Abraxas had been entrusted with the City’s oversight in his Maker’s absence and he took that responsibility very seriously, spending the entirety of his day tending to the business and investigating the fire. These nightly rounds weren't a requirement, merely a practice he engaged in for his own mental health. Abraxas enjoyed staying apprised of the Territory, experiencing its grit and glamour first hand.

But tonight his concentration was tethered to one location, one task he was hopeless to avoid. The longer he denied the temptation the more it would haunt him, and Abraxas was full-up on ghosts. So he turned the corner into the alley leading to the one place he knew he shouldn’t be going. Yet the moonlight continued to beckon him forward as though abiding her personal command.

He stopped before the unassuming shop and gazed upon its sign, trying once more to talk himself out of entering. He had no reasonable excuse for being here. If Tom found out— _He never has to know_. Abraxas set his jaw. _He already suspects something amiss…_ _That’s why it’s best to do this now, get her out of my head before he returns…_

Abraxas reached forward, opening the door before his final vestige of sanity slipped away. The bell chimed overhead as he entered, muscles drawing tight when her scent surrounded him in a heady rush, cutting through the herbal notes of incense and candles. He released his breath, hearing her heartbeat a moment before spotting movement from the corner of his eye.

She stood behind the counter, facing away and arranging a display of rose quartz. “Welcome. How can I help you?”

Her hair was woven in a loose braid, dried flowers tucked between its gleaming folds. Abraxas watched her polish a crystal, utterly transfixed. “I was hoping to find another distraction.”

She dropped the quartz atop the counter, spinning in a flourish of gauzy skirts.

"Given the smashing success of my last endeavor I thought I might try my luck a second time," he continued, posture easing at her radiant smile.

“Abraxas,” she greeted, unleashing a flood of warmth in his chest.

“Moonlight.”

She laughed shortly, the sound caressing the air in satin tendrils. “I’m afraid I don’t have any disgruntled clients for you to protect me from this evening.”

“What a shame,” he lamented with a grin. “Perhaps I could receive my reading instead. That is, if the offer still stands.”

“It certainly does,” she replied, gesturing to a small table with two chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

Abraxas crossed the colorful rug and pulled out a chair, unbuttoning the front of his tailored jacket and lowering gracefully. He watched as she stepped out from behind the counter, the tassels of her peasant top swaying with every step.

“On the topic of disgruntled clients, have you had any more visits from embezzling divorcés?”

Her grin crept higher as she pulled the opposite chair free, holding his gaze as she lowered. “I’m beginning to suspect your true motivation for coming tonight has less to do with your reading and more to do with Mr. Everett.”

“My only motivation is you,” Abraxas replied simply, then heated at the candid admission. He felt like a nervous schoolboy, cursing himself for acting like a fool. “That is, your reading,” he continued.

She had the grace to change the subject, smile unwavering. “Have you ever had your fortune told?”

“Actually, I have. Many years ago.”

“You visited a psychic?”

“Not quite,” he adjusted in the chair, its worn frame groaning at the joints. “When I still lived in Europe I crossed paths with a Roma tribe. One of the women provided me with a prediction. Or perhaps premonition is an apter description.”

She tilted her head, regarding him curiously. “Did it come true?”

Abraxas wet his lips. “Unfortunately.”

She seemed to sense the weight of his response, and as anticipated, had the courtesy not to pry for more.

“Such is the way of fate I’m afraid,” she offered instead. “Though I try and spare my clients from knowledge of circumstances beyond their control.”

“You don’t believe man is in control of his own fate?”

“I believe the majority of men aren’t willing to make the change and sacrifice necessary to take control, least of all at the word of a back-alley psychic.”

His lips quirked, intrigued at her outlook. He gazed upon her for several moments more before spreading his admiration to their surroundings. “How long have you owned this shop?”

“How do you know I own it?”

“You take great pride in your establishment,” his grin widened, “I sense a vested interest beyond a mere renter.”

She mirrored his expression, though a shadow of sadness lingered behind her eyes. “It's been in my family for three generations. My grandparents purchased it and left it to my mother. She and my father left it to me.”

Abraxas registered the source of her melancholy and offered the return courtesy of not prodding at the wound. “Has it always been a psychic shop?”

“Yes,” she sat straighter, “the women in my family have had the gift of Sight for over two hundred years.”

His eyes roamed her face at leisure, causing a delicate blush to infuse her cheeks. “Two hundred years isn’t very long.”

She blinked, and then her laughter surrounded him a second time, triggering a purr of satisfaction in his chest. “Time is relative as anything else, I suppose,” she said at last.

Their gazes lingered, candlelight and shadows dancing across their faces as the outside world fell away… and then a car horn blared in the distance, breaking their charged trance.

Abraxas wet his lips, gums throbbing in time to his rapid pulse, realizing he’d leaned half-way across the table. He pressed his hands flat to its scarred surface and sank back into his chair, clearing his throat to dispel the gravel.

“So, how does this work?” He asked, voice still deeper than intended.

She took a steadying breath, eyes gleaming and cheeks flush. "In order to guide my reading, I ask that you focus your mind on whatever stressor or circumstance you'd like additional insight on."

Abraxas fought back a smirk, suspecting the true design of her ability. He'd encountered enough con-artists in his extended lifetime to spot them from a mile off. She was far too pure, too genuine to be counted among their ranks. It was more likely she'd found a means of applying advanced perception to turn a marginal profit. But as a member of the supernatural population himself, he wouldn't discount the possibility that she truly possessed the Sight. It mattered little to him either way, as long as he got to linger in her presence he'd happily play along.

She smoothed her hands across her skirt before folding them primly atop her lap, gazing upon him intently. Abraxas dutifully followed instructions, clearing his mind. It was a simple enough task, thoughts rapidly fleeting in the wake of her penetrating stare. He set to work creating an easily recognizable scene, recalling the monotony of his morning scouring through accounting books and receipts. He added a few fabrications for flourish, an encroaching deadline and demanding boss, the gnawing fear of losing his job, curious if she'd take the bait.

Her eyes paled, the effect mesmerizing, drawing his focus entirely as the light around her began to bend and refract, a striking anomaly visible only through the use of his heightened vision.

“I sense a problem at work, the mounting pressure of an upcoming deadline,” she spoke carefully, lips curving in a wry grin. “I also sense this is only a superficial problem and not the true source of your recent disquiet.”

Abraxas leaned back, impressed and unnerved.

"I detect deep-seated unrest, a great responsibility weighing upon your shoulders paired with a festering sense of guilt," she tilted her head, braid swaying, "... tied to an obligation that keeps you shackled to a life you no longer feel is your own."

His complexion drained, shoulders drawing wide as her eyes continued to lighten, irises nearly white.

“It all stems from something, one moment, one decision… a memory you’ve gone to great lengths to suppress, though you’re reminded of it daily.”

Abraxas swallowed heavily, each word penetrating deep beneath the surface, knocking at the walls of Pandora’s box.

“You’re working off a great debt to someone and have reconciled your unhappiness by absorbing their goals as your own. But you no longer identify with the cause you fight for, no longer hunger for the fruits you’ve been working towards. And when you look inside yourself you only feel…”

A weighted beat. He held his breath, poised on the edge of his chair.

“Empty,” she whispered.

Abraxas exhaled swiftly, gripping the edge of the table so hard it rattled atop the floor. She jolted, concentration broken.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, blue flooding back into her eyes. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn't upset me,” he said slowly. “I just wasn’t expecting…” He released the table, gathering his bearings. “Very few things surprise me anymore. I’m… impressed.”

She blushed, gaze dropping. “Your past is deeply buried, I got a bit carried away. It’s rare I encounter such a mystery.”

Abraxas searched her face, lingering on her mouth as she bit her lip. "If you want to uncover my secrets there are much easier ways to do so." He leaned forward. "Have dinner with me."

She blinked, lips parting and eyes flitting up. “It's against policy to date clients.”

“Thank goodness you write the policy,” he replied with a grin, canines threatening to lengthen as her heartbeat filled his head and blood rushed to the surface of her skin, veins throbbing in her wrists and neck.

“I have another reading tonight,” she said with blatant disappointment.

“Tomorrow then.”

She licked her lips. He gripped his knees to keep himself from flipping the table and grabbing her.

“Okay,” she said at last, smiling radiantly. “I’d love to.”

Victory set his chest aflame. The urge to touch her was even stronger, muscles clenching tight with an instinctual need to pounce. But Abraxas was unparalleled in self-control, mastering the virtue long before his Maker.

"I look forward to our next encounter," he said, pushing away from the table before doing something he'd soon regret. "And perhaps afterward, you'll reward me with your true name."

She laughed, oblivious to the war playing out between his mind and body. Yet the sound was a soothing force, even as it ignited his blood like a match to gasoline. Light continued to bend and dance around her, nature itself trapped under her spell.

“Perhaps I will.”

* * *

Harry finished wrapping his wrist and bit off the excess tape, rising swiftly from the bench. He stretched his arms over front as he exited the locker room and embarked down the dark and narrow hall. The roar of the crowd grew louder as he approached the main floor, the Underground clearly packed, its audience rowdy and crazed with blood-lust. They were chanting something in unison but he couldn't make it out, and by the time he opened the door they'd erupted into wild cheers, celebrating what was surely a spectacularly violent win.

Adrenaline flooded his system as he stepped onto the viewing balcony, glimpsing the crowd up close. He’d never seen so many people in one place, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder like sardines in a tin. But no one seemed to mind the tight confines, well-plied with bootleg booze and betting slips. The windows near the ceiling had been propped open for ventilation, pale moonlight washed out by the glare of industrial lighting, but the room was still stifled by the sour combination of sweat, piss, and alcohol.

Harry pushed his way to the railing, clutching it tightly as strangers pressed in on either side, everyone eager to get a good view of the Pit, which, despite its ominous name was merely an emptied pool left over from the gym conversion. The sunken arena was lined with broken tile and stained grout, and at present, an unconscious man was sprawled across its floor, drenched in sweat and blood. Harry narrowed his gaze, watching as two employees dragged the defeated fighter away by his ankles while a third hosed off the walls and floor, blood swirling down the center drain.

“Potter!”

Harry glanced sideways, spotting a familiar face. "Bagman."

His neutral greeting did nothing to diminish the owner’s enthusiasm as he fought through the crowd for a spot at Harry’s side. “It’s been so long I thought I’d seen the last of you!”

“You aren’t done with me yet.”

The man clapped him on the bare shoulder, smiling like a loon. “Came to see if the rumors are true, eh?”

“I didn’t even know about the rumors until I arrived.” Harry peered down at the now empty Pit. “All these people came for the new fighter?”

“I’m certainly not paying them to be here.” Bagman raised a brow, grin curving up until it practically reached his forehead. “You thinking of going down?”

Harry watched bloody water drip down the cracked tiles. “How many rounds has he gone tonight?”

“Only two.”

He glanced sideways. “Only?”

Bagman laughed, the sound barely audible over the dense murmur of the crowd, everyone eager for the next match.

“He knocked them out within a few minutes, and that was just to give the crowd a show. All he needed was one hit.”

The muscles rippled across his Harry’s back, tightening with anticipation.

“But they were weekend hitters,” Bagman continued, watching him carefully. “No real training or skill. Not like you.”

Harry rolled his eyes and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the railing. “You just want to see me get my ass beat.”

Bagman laughed anew. “I admit, it would be quite spectacular to see my only two undefeated fighters face-off in the Pit. He’s bigger, pretty fast, too. But you have that lucky horseshoe jammed up your ass.”

“If I had a horseshoe up there I’d use it to knock the fucker out.”

The owner smirked, sidling closer. “Seriously, Potter, no one slips tight corners like you can. If anyone could give him a run for his money, it’s you.”

The crowd began to rile, abuzz over something on the floor. Harry glanced down, hunting for the source of the excitement.

“The next slot’s booked but he’ll make easy work of Rodriguez,” Bagman continued. “You could be the final match of the night, the grand finale. The crowd will come in their pants.”

“I don’t care about the crowd,” Harry replied, still searching the sea of faces.

“What about the payout? I’ll double your take in addition to the reward.”

“I’m not interested in money either.”

The owner tilted his head. “You’re the only fighter I’ve met who doesn’t care about money or reputation.” He leaned closer. “Tell me something, Potter, why do you come here? You get plenty of chances to fight in the ring. And don’t feed me that line about escaping regulations, I’ve seen you pull your punches here.”

Harry set his jaw, then tensed as the crowd parted down the center, making way for a hulking figure. “I come for distraction. I don’t need to beat men unconscious to find it.”

“You sure that’s the reason?”

Harry’s lungs stilled as he watched the man approach the Pit, the massive wall of his back undulating with every step, muscles swollen and defined. The tanned flesh was decorated with an array of tattoos and scars, long dark hair dripping with sweat.

“Sometimes, I think you’re holding back because you’re afraid,” Bagman continued, earning Harry’s focus.

“Afraid?”

“Of what you’re capable of.”

Harry’s body throbbed with the force of his heartbeat, each word a brick stacked before him, walling him in.

“There’s a darkness inside you, boy. I’ve seen it in the eyes of a lot of men, especially the ones who come through my doors. Most of them are here to free it. But you keep yours on a tight leash.”

Harry swallowed thickly. Bagman tilted his head, eyes gleaming beneath the fluorescent lamps.

“Aren’t you curious what it would feel like to let go, to _really_ let go, just once?”

Harry’s knuckles turned white as he leaned into the rail, and then the crowd surged like a wave, pulling his gaze to the floor. An average-sized fighter entered the Pit, bouncing back and forth as he shadowboxed the air with little skill. Rodriguez.

The giant reached the edge of the pool, forgoing the steps as he dropped off the wall and landed in a low pounce. Harry released a sharp breath, eager to see his face, but the man continued to turn away as though purposefully eluding him. The stranger remained still and calm, doing nothing to incite the crowd, which naturally only served to incite them more. Meanwhile, Rodriguez began pacing back and forth, lifting his hands to rile the audience, shouting loudly, though the nervous bounce to his step undercut the bravado of his words. Bagman leaned into the rail as the whistle blew.

“You could unleash all of it, give it everything you've got,” the older man said, only audible for how close he stood to Harry’s side.

The fighters circled each other. Harry’s pulse skipped as the stranger’s face was briefly revealed— only to be blocked by his long hair falling forward, hiding his identity once more.

“Lose yourself,” Bagman mused.

Rodriguez made the first move, trying to land a headshot with a predictable right hook, swinging wide and bracing his feet too far apart.

“And who knows…”

The stranger easily slipped the hit, veering forward and launching a powerful cross that sent his opponent airborne. Rodriguez was practically horizontal by the time his feet left the ground, blood gushing from his nose in a spiraling ribbon, painting the filthy tile and grout red as he hit the ground in an unconscious heap.

The crowd went wild.

Bagman looked to Harry, unsurprised by the knockout. “You might actually end up finding yourself in the process.”

The stranger carded a hand through his hair and headed for the steps as the crowd chanted his name in a drunken frenzy.

“What do you say?” Bagman asked.

The victor emerged from the Pit, face on full display at long last. He cast a bored look around the room before glancing at the balcony, staring at Bagman. And then Harry shifted, drawing the powerful gaze sideways.

Their eyes met.

The stranger stopped in the middle of the room and awarded him with his undivided attention. Harry swallowed thickly, lungs frozen, knees locked. The roar of the crowd faded to the background of his mind as he addressed the man at his side, speaking with calm certainty.

“I’ll take the next round.”

Bagman grinned anew, slapping him on the back and pushing off the rail. “Thatta boy! Let me tell the bookie.”

.   .   .

Harry rubbed his nape, kneading the knotted muscles before skimming lower and tracing the mottled flesh of his shoulder. The sun had set nearly an hour prior, time fleeting as he wandered the City in a haze. Anything to avoid Grimmauld, to prolong the inevitable. He didn't think he could stand being locked inside its oppressive walls all night with only Richard for company.

Perhaps he could bribe Susan into staying, offer to double her rate. Nor was he opposed to outright begging. In truth, Richard was much better off in her care anyway; Harry hadn’t the faintest clue how to look after the man. Besides, the people closest to Harry had an unfortunate habit of turning up dead or missing. Yes, Susan was a much better choice.

He rounded the corner, starting up Grimmauld’s pristinely paved road. His mind was a tangled web of half-formed thoughts and plans and nightmares and memories, so when he peered up and spotted the apparition standing before the gates he assumed it was merely a figment of his imagination… until she rocked back on her heels with a soft gasp, the familiar sound finally penetrating the dense fog of his consciousness.

Harry stopped in his tracks, blood stilling in his veins, the universe holding its collective breath as it watched. She lifted both hands to her mouth, the movement captured by the streetlamp standing between them, bathing her in an orange glow and turning her hair into a fiery beacon that pulsed before his eyes.

His fingers twitched restlessly at his sides, searching for a thread of reality. “... Ginny?” He breathed, barely above a whisper.

She swallowed thickly, hands dropping to her middle as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Are you real?” She whispered back.

Harry felt his own eyes fill, her image blurring, a mirage in the desert. “I think so,” he replied on a deep inhale, breath catching in his throat. “Are you?”

She blinked twice, droplets falling off her jaw as she swayed in place. “I’m not sure anymore.”

He felt his entire body seize, overcome with the need to move and the need to stay, terrified of breaking the spell and watching her float away like dust in the wind. And then she swayed again, stumbling to stay upright, and his limbs took action of their own accord.

Harry bounded forward as she tipped sideways, red hair fluttering in the breeze. He dove low, catching her just before she hit the cement, pulling her into his lap.

“Gin!”

He brushed the hair from her face and noticed her skin was deathly pale and cold, glistening with tears and smudged with mascara. Her blue eyes were so bloodshot they appeared violet, searching his face with longing and disbelief.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered miserably.

He shook his head, clutching her tighter. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing. You’re home now, that’s all that matters.”

The closer he held her the colder she felt, as though his heat chased hers away. His mind short-circuited with questions but Harry paid them little mind. It all could wait. She was back, she was safe, and she’d restored something vital he’d long been without, bringing him one piece closer to becoming whole.

“I’ve got you,” he muttered, rubbing a hand along her spine in an attempt to comfort her. Instead, the gesture seemed to have the opposite effect. She cried out, clutching his shirt and burying her face in his neck, entire body wracked by powerful sobs.

“It’s okay,” Harry whispered into her hair, wrapping both arms around her. “Everything’s going to be okay.” He rocked her back and forth, still reeling with the overwhelming relief of her return. And then he glanced up and realized they were still in the middle of the street. “I’m going to carry you,” he said, adjusting his hold.

Ginny tensed, whispered something against his shoulder he couldn’t hear, more focused on steadying her weight as he stood with her in his arms. She felt the same as he recalled, long legs dangling over his arm just like they had all those nights he’s carried her home after dancing her feet bloody or drinking herself under the table.

Harry stalked across the street, determination driving every step as he approached the mansion, already thinking about which bedroom to set her up in—

But they never made it that far, for the moment he tried to breach the ivy-strewn gate a powerful barrier erected, invisible but impenetrable. She screamed as they collided against it, the shrill cry as jarring as the impact itself. Harry staggered back, gaping at the iridescent ripple in the air, the crackle of electricity, and then everything fell still and silent.

Harry lingered at the curb, staring at the gates in bewilderment. “What the hell?” He tightened his grip and edged forward with her in tow, scenting something akin to smoke as the air shifted around them, the rod-iron humming in clear warning.

Ginny reached up and gripped the back of his neck. “ _Stop_ ,” she whispered, voice hoarse and weak.

He paused in the middle of the sidewalk, meeting her pleading stare.

“I can’t go inside, Harry.” She tipped her head back, moonlight illuminating her pale features, glinting off her eyes and—

Harry felt the bottom drop out as ivory fangs appeared between her chapped lips, her next words pushing him into a spiraling freefall.

“Not without an invitation.”

* * *

Hermione woke in stages, made harder by the fact the room was nearly pitch black and her body felt like it had been run over by a Subway train. She lifted her head from the pillow, fabric damp with sweat and hair plastered to the side of her face. She peeled curls from her cheek and tried to sit up.

“Harry?” She whispered, voice scratchy from disuse.

“Afraid not.”

She glanced at the corner, spotting a pair of glowing eyes floating in darkness. The sight didn't inspire fear, merely memory, awareness taking hold in an exhausting rush.

“What happened?” She asked.

“You passed out.”

She wet her lips, or tried to, her mouth a barren wasteland. “What time is it?”

“Just after 2 a.m.”

Hermione blinked, pausing her efforts to push upright. “You've been watching me sleep?”

“You were delirious, I made certain you didn't harm yourself.”

“Did I try to?”

He tilted his head, the faint outline of his body becoming visible. “You were too busy harming me.”

“Oh.” Hermione sank back into the pillows. “Well thank goodness for that.” She pushed the hair from her eyes. “Is it over?”

“Your fever broke nearly an hour ago, but you aren't out of the woods yet.”

Speaking of woods… fresh air sounded nearly as marvelous as water, the atmosphere thick and stagnate.

“Can I go outside?”

“No.”

Hermione sighed, his no-argument tone giving rise to an argument, but she was far too exhausted to put forth the effort. “Can you at least turn on a light?”

She heard shifting fabric and a click before the floor lamp exploded to life in a bright burst. She cringed back, shielding her eyes… and took startling notice of her attire, cheeks heating at the sight of her bare legs and silk chemise bunched high around her hips.

“ _What_ am I wearing?”

“Something entirely more practical.”

She glanced up sharply. He was seated in a leather armchair, ankle resting atop his knee as he watched her with supreme amusement.

“You changed my clothes?”

“I was posed with little option. You stripped down while waxing poetic about the cosmos. I suspected you’d be far more cross if I’d left you in your skivvies.”

Hermione opened and closed her mouth, certain she’d feel proper embarrassment if given the energy. “I don't remember any of that.” She tugged the chemise as low as it would go. “What else did I do?”

“Regaled me with your favorite Egyptian and Greek fables, though I'm fairly certain you merged several into one. When I said as much you pointedly stated that you weren't speaking to me.”

Dear lord. “I'm afraid to ask.”

His fingers drummed atop the armrest. “You were speaking to your pet scorpion.”

She threw an arm over her face, able to feel a shadow of mortification after all, and then a chilling thought occurred, prompting her to glance forward.

“Scorpion?”

“Hm.”

She perched on her elbows, holding his gaze. “Did it have a name?”

He arched a brow, intrigued. “Yes. But you refused to tell me.”

She sank down again, closing her eyes as dread unfurled in her gut.

“Hermione—”

“I'd like to bathe,” she said, eager to change the subject.

“You can barely sit upright.” His eyes gleamed. “I'll need to assist to make certain you don't drown.”

“Then I'll wait,” she said, opening her eyes with resignation.

Tom smirked. “I thought as much.” He rose so quickly she barely saw him move. “There's only one way to recover your strength.”

Her fingers curled into the wrinkled sheets, bracing for the ominous words certain to come.

“It’s time,” he concluded.

The anticipation of his announcement did little to quell her rising panic. She shook her head, legs curling in. "I can't, Tom."

“I assure you, you can.”

“The thought still sickens me.”

“Only your mind, your body knows what it needs.”

Hermione looked away, relieved she was too dehydrated to muster tears.

“You've read too many books,” he said.

Her gaze snapped back, scandalized. “There’s no such thing.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You've read too many _horrors_. This isn’t going to be a bloodbath.” He started for the door. “Just don't turn into a bat while I'm gone.”

She rolled her eyes, listening to him pace through the cabin and questioning her life choices, wondering where it all went wrong. Her stomach clenched as she heard him break the seal of an icebox, though she hadn't the faintest clue whether she was hungry or terrified, the drain on her muscles overriding everything else.

He returned moments later, blood bags and cups in hand. She watched him set the bounty on the dresser.

“We'll start with O-positive, that's usually quite agreeable.”

“Sounds great,” she muttered.

He turned the furniture into a macabre bar, ripping open the i.v. cord and draining the contents into a copper mug. The sound of blood hitting metal made her stomach growl. Her legs curled tighter as he approached, stopping just beside the bed and extending the offering. "Chilled is best to start, it'll lower your temperature and mask the flavor."

Hermione stared at the shiny copper for several seconds before raising a trembling hand. He placed the cup in her palm, their fingers overlapping as he helped steady her grip.

“Thank you,” she whispered automatically, oblivious to the predatory glint in his eyes as he watched her study the contents. She met her reflection’s gaze in the rippling surface, stomach rumbling anew. But fear and shame overrode any hunger, the battle playing out across her face.

“Don’t think about it,” he instructed calmly. “Once you taste it instinct will take over.”

Hermione blinked, realizing she was still able to produce tears after all. “I did this.”

Tom remained silent. She glanced up, eyes glistening. “That’s the worst part. I did this to myself.”

He studied her intently. “By accident. You didn’t choose this.”

“I can’t imagine how someone could.”

His jaw ticked, no response issuing forth. She peered back into the mug, squirming as the scent rose to greet her. Citrus, acidic and tart, not at all what she expected. Hermione licked her lips, knowing full well there was no going back after today.

_You passed the point of no return when you decided to open the jar…_

Her shoulders drew tight, a single tear overspilling her bottom lashes.

“What happened after Ammit devoured the heart?”

Hermione jolted at the rumbling voice, gazing up. “What?”

Tom leaned into the bedpost, eyes dark as smoke. “What becomes of the soul once its heart is gone?”

She lowered the cup to her thigh. “If a soul was deemed unworthy it couldn’t voyage to Osiris and immortality. It was left to wander the earth for all eternity, restless and cursed.” The familiar tale wrapped her in a warm embrace. “The Egyptians called it Second Death.”

His pupils expanded, leaving her breathless. “See?” He prompted, arching a dark brow. “Some people have it much worse.”

Hermione blinked. And then the tension broke with an audible snap, pulling an amused smile to the surface.

“I suppose they do,” she mused, holding his gaze for another throbbing beat as the suffocating weight on her chest melted away. She took a steadying breath and returned her gaze to the cup, prepared to meet her fate.

Hermione lifted the mug and leaned forward, lips pressing cool copper as she took her first tentative sip. Blood rushed across her tongue and instantly triggered her gag reflex, the flavor and thickness turning her stomach inside out, the acid overwhelming. She spat it back into the cup, coughing and sputtering. Tom sighed in frustration. A flush spread across her neck as she registered the disappointment in his eyes. Failing to meet someone's expectations was always her greatest fear, regardless of the task. But it was his fault for failing to warn her. She hadn't been prepared.

“Is it supposed to be like biting into a lemon?” She shuddered, balancing the mug between her hands. “God, the aftertaste is even worse.”

He took the cup without response, bringing it to his face and giving it a cursory sniff, holding her gaze over the rim. Hermione shifted awkwardly, trapped by his dark stare.

“I don’t think I can stomach it,” she admitted, blush spreading to her face.

He turned away, crossing to the dresser in silence and setting the mug aside. She bit her lip, feeling like a failure. Hermione certainly harbored no desire to become a vampire, but if it was to be forced upon her she at least wanted to execute the task well. She shook her head at the absurdity, blaming her ramblings on fever and dehydration.

Tom set to work opening a new bag, filling the second mug only a fraction of the way before lifting it to his mouth and taking a deep swallow. She held her breath, watching the heavy bob of his throat as he lowered the cup and licked his lips, fangs fully extended and eyes blazing with an eerie and familiar glow. Then he crossed to the bed, extending the mug with a steady hand. “Round two,” he murmured.

She tore her gaze from his mouth and accepted the offering, body clenched as she dove in head-first, taking a sip without bothering to inspect the contents.

Big mistake.

She immediately spit it up, gagging loudly.

“This one’s spoiled,” she wheezed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Spoiled?”

She trembled violently. “What's it supposed to taste like?”

“Food.”

His frigid tone drew her gaze.

“Maybe it’s too soon to drink?” She asked, eager to alleviate his disappointment.

His fangs gleamed. “There’s no getting around this, Hermione. You need blood to survive.”

“You think I’m lying?” She asked, caught between hurt and offense.

A tense beat.

“Let’s try another,” he said, the hard-set of his shoulders providing her answer.

She sighed with resignation, leaning against the headboard as he opened the third bag, squeezing blood onto the tip of his finger and tasting it.

And then her vision faded to white, shapes bleeding out of focus as her body turned weightless.

“Shite,” Tom hissed from somewhere in the distance, voice echoing from the bottom of a well. “Hermione.”

She searched him out but her surroundings were reduced to silhouettes and light, everything two-dimensional and fuzzy. Movement caught her eye as the dark outline of a scorpion scurried over the side of the mattress, passing over sheets and blankets like a shadow gliding under the water, heading straight for her—

And then a hand grasped her chin and pried her lips apart, a thumb pressing between her teeth and swiping across her tongue. Hermione gasped, senses flaring to life as she breached the icy surface.

“Swallow it.”

Her body throbbed at the deep command, vision sharpening as the room was plunged into stunning clarity. Colors appeared sharper, brighter, senses overwhelmed by the heady scent and rich flavor exploding across her tongue and running down the back of her throat.

The thumb began to slide away. She leaned forward, capturing his wrist and tightening her lips, drawing harder on his flesh as she laved it clean, thighs clenching as her throat and stomach ignited with an exquisite burn. She closed her eyes, lost to the sensation and lulled by a rumbling growl. But a jarring _snap_ startled her from the trance, mouth parting on a gasp as the bedpost beside her head broke in half, bits of wood raining down.

She glanced at the wreckage in confusion, blinking as Tom tossed a busted slat over his shoulder and leaned forward, driving her against the headboard. His pupils were so overblown his eyes appeared black, a shark's gaze primal gaze. She clutched the bedding and fought down a full-body shudder, nerve-endings singing with whatever drug he'd given her.

“I don’t…” She gasped breathlessly, swallowing thickly. “Is this supposed to happen?”

He offered no response, lost to his own raging hunger. His eyes fastened to her neck, tracking the rapid thrum of her artery as he traced his fangs with the tip of his tongue. She pressed her thighs tight, certain she was done for.

He surged for her neck.

“Tom,” she gasped, pressing her hands to the solid wall of his chest, knowing she had no hope of stopping him.

But the sound of his name on her lips had a powerful effect all its own. He froze above her, fists bracing the mattress on either side of her body as he searched her face, seeming to register her presence. She held her breath as his pupils slowly shrank, the powerful tension in his body calming. He pushed off the bed without warning, turning away and breathing hard as though clearing his airways. Hermione stared at his back, afraid to speak, the silence more tortuous than the clenching in her gut, her body eager for more of the vital substance.

"It seems we've found a match," he said, voice so gravel-thick she could barely make sense of the words.

Hermione licked her lips and pressed a hand to her mouth. “You said it’s supposed to taste like food…” her knees trembled. “That _didn’t_ taste like food.”

“You kept it down.” He carded a hand through his hair, shoulders rolling with tension. “That’s all that matters.”

She glanced at the dresser. "What blood-type was that?"

He slowly turned to face the bed. Her legs drew up as a cloud of something divine fell upon her, choking her with its heady aroma. It was then she noticed his thumb was still glistening with blood, a fresh bead welling to the surface from a narrow wound in the flesh. She leaned forward beyond her control, drawn by the beckoning scent and ruby sheen.

“It wasn’t a bag,” he said, the intensity of his voice making her squirm.

She dug her heels into the sheets, tension mounting. “What does this mean?”

Tom lifted his hand, blood flowing down the side of his wrist in a gleaming ribbon. "It means you're going to feed from me."


End file.
